The Independent Stitch

Lithuanian knitting: unusual and approachable continuing traditions

Years ago, when I edited Shuttle Spindle & Dyepot, I learned of Lithuanian textiles through weaving, by way of work by Antanas and Anastazija Tamošaitis and by Kati Meek and an awareness of the Balzekas Museum of Lithuanian Culture in Chicago (SS&D Summer 1986). Lithuania is one of three countries tucked into the curve at the eastern end of the Baltic Sea, along with Latvia and Estonia.

Later I met and published several books by Donna Druchunas, who has delved deeply into her Lithuanian roots with a special interest in the knitting heritage. Donna included some Lithuanian material in her Ethnic Knitting Exploration, for which I knitted the samples as part of the design and publishing process. Donna's dedication and rigor make her a great working partner.

Knowing Donna led to my meeting June Hall, who lives in Cumbria, in northwestern England, with a flock of Soay sheep and has been my generous guide and connection to that part of the world. June, too, digs long and hard into the subjects that catch her intellect and interest.

They both have studied the Lithuanian language, traveled to Lithuania, and now (over more than eight years) collaborated on a book: Lithuanian Knitting: Continuing Traditions.

 

It’s a great honor to host Donna here with a blog post celebrating the imminent publication of Donna’s and June’s book on Lithuanian knitting (and sheep and wool). She’s written us a splendidly technical introduction to how she came to know some of the techniques in the book—and notes as well that you can knit the book’s projects with the techniques that are already familiar to you. It’s just interesting, and possibly useful, to know exactly what methods Lithuanians use to make their stitches dance.

— Deb

P.S. I’ll be back with more blog posts before long. My time for writing posts has been consumed by other pressing needs, but it looks like some of those will soon be resolved.

_____

Guest post by Donna Druchunas

What is Lithuanian knitting?

What makes knitting Lithuanian? Is it special techniques that are used? A unique way to hold the yarn and needles? Certain combinations of colors? Interesting pattern stitches?

All of these things, and more. The techniques I’ve included in Lithuanian Knitting: Continuing Traditions are all based on vintage accessories in museum collections, reproductions of Lithuanian National Costume ensembles, or folk art pieces made by contemporary knitters. These instructions are adapted from Mezgimas (Knitting) by Anastazija Tamošaitis as well as other vintage and contemporary Lithuanian knitting books in my library, along with tips I’ve picked up from Lithuanian friends. I’ve modernized some of the decreases and made other adjustments to make the techniques easier for contemporary knitters.

I love vintage knitting books and have my own small collection of nineteenth-century English-language books, but the earliest Lithuanian-language knitting books I’ve discovered so far were published almost a hundred years later. Sodžiaus menas kn. 5: Mezgimo-nėrimo raštai (Village Arts no. 5: Knitting patterns), by Antanas Tamošaitis, came out in 1933 and Mezgimas (Knitting), by Anastazija Tamošaitis, Antanas’s wife, was published in 1935. 

Together, these two books form a wonderful foundation in Lithuanian knitting. Antanas wrote about the spiritual significance of folk art and documented colorwork motifs and mitten and sock designs from regions around the country, while Anastazija wrote instructions for knitting a variety of accessories using traditional motifs and colors. Mezgimas also includes instructions for knitting techniques that were not traditional in Lithuania, but which Anastazija may have learned about in The Encyclopedia of Needlework, by Thérèse de Dillmont, which was published in 1884 and became a hugely popular reference throughout Europe.

Most of the Lithuanian-language knitting books in my collection were published between 1959 and 1979, during the Soviet period. Most were written by Lithuanian authors, but others were translated from Russian. I found these books on eBay and at used book shops, street fairs, and flea markets in Lithuania. These books are quite similar to the vintage English-language knitting books I have from the same period. They include basic knitting and crochet instructions, a stitch library, and a collection of projects. Many of the books also include basic dressmaking information, along with tips for sizing garments which may be quite detailed or as vague as, “Models are given in one size. If you make a gauge swatch, it will be very easy for you to determine the number of stitches to cast on for your own size.”

I’ve been learning to read and speak Lithuanian, so at first it was a challenge to figure these books out, but since I’m quite fluent in knitting and they all have lots of charts and diagrams, it’s been a good way to learn the parts of the language related to knitting.

The basics: Grandmother’s knitting

My grandmother taught me how to knit when I was in kindergarten, maybe even before that. I started out with a stockinette-stitch swatch and wrapped the working yarn snugly around my left index finger, like a bobbin, to control my tension. 

“When you knit the yarn goes in the back and the needle goes in the back of the stitch,” Grandma told me. “And when you purl, the yarn goes in the front, and the needle goes into the front of the stitch.” The formula was easy for me to remember and I learned to knit and purl with equal ease. I didn’t know that this was called the Eastern Uncrossed or Combination method of knitting, commonly used in Russia and parts of Eastern Europe. To me, this was just Grandma’s knitting.

One of my favorite Lithuanian knitting books, a small volume called Megzkime Pačios (Let’s Knit) by O. Jarmulavičienė, presents the basic knitting stitches just the way my grandmother taught me. Other books offer up instructions for the standard modern-European style of knitting and note that this is the common method used in books, but in the old days, most knitters (in Lithuania) used močiutės mezgimas, or “grandmother’s knitting.” Both methods are interchangeable, the authors explain, as long as you pay attention to your work. In general, the books do not show drawings with hands, but the working yarn always trails off the drawings to the left, with the assumption that knitters will carry the yarn in their left hand, no matter which way they form their stitches.

Knit and purl stitches

Knit = back/back. To make a knit stitch, hold the working yarn in the back, and insert the right needle into the back of the stitch. Pick the yarn with the tip of the right needle and pull it through to form a new stitch.

Won’t you twist your stitches if you knit into the back? Not if you purl wrapping your yarn in the opposite direction. 

Purl = front/front. To make a purl stitch, hold the working yarn in front, and insert the right needle into the front of the stitch. Pick the yarn in the same manner as you do when knitting.

With this technique, switching back and forth between knits and purls is easy and fast. After I practiced for a bit, the process became unconscious as the yarn “automatically” moved to the front or back of my needles as necessary for the next stitch. Ribbing and cables followed quickly for me, and I never realized that purling was supposed to be difficult. Moving your yarn to the front or back of the needles is something that is not even mentioned in Lithuanian knitting books.

To knit without twisting your stitches, always work into the leading (or right) leg of the stitch. It doesn’t matter if it’s in front of or behind the needle.

Decreases

While I was doing my research on Lithuanian knitting techniques, I stumbled onto an interesting discussion in the Combination Knitters group on Ravelry about Lithuanian (and Russian) knitting and how to work left- and right-leaning decreases. This is an important topic, and perhaps the most confusing to knitters who knit in the Lithuanian fashion. Because your stitches are oriented on the needle with the leading leg of the stitch at the back, the normal decrease instructions in English-language knitting books don’t make any sense when you look at your stitches on the needle.

Left-slanting decrease 

A left-slanting decrease is usually worked as ssk in America these days. In my Lithuanian knitting books it’s usually called simply "knit two together," but because the stitches are turned, you put the right needle into the back of the two stitches to knit them together and the final decrease leans to the left. Sometimes it is explained like this: 2 akys, sumegztos kartu gerai iš apačios (knit two together from the bottom, or back). But it’s not usually so simple, because knitting terminology is not standardized in Lithuania, so each author explains things in her own way.

• If you knit in the Western fashion, with the leading leg in front, this will be twisted. You can turn the stitches around first so they don’t twist, if you prefer, which is usually called ssk. 

• If you knit in the Lithuanian fashion, with the leading leg in back, this will not be twisted.

Right-slanting decrease 

A right-slanting decrease is worked as k2tog in America. In my Lithuanian books, this is sometimes explained as 2 akys, sumegztos kartu gerai iš viršaus (knit two together from the top, or front). This creates a decrease that slants to the right, but the stitches are twisted. Depending on the yarn texture and color, this may or may not be noticeable in the finished knitting.

• If you knit in the Western fashion, with the leading leg in front, this will not be twisted.

• If you knit in the Lithuanian fashion, with the leading leg in back, this will be twisted. You can turn the stitches around first so they don't twist, if you prefer. There's no formal name for this maneuver, but it is similar in concept to ssk. It is actually only necessary to turn the second stitch around. The first stitch will be the bottom stitch in the decrease, and will be hidden.

All of this is very technical and fascinating to me, but you can knit any of the projects in Lithuanian Knitting: Continuing Traditions in any techniques you like. In fact, most of the projects are knitted in the round, which eliminates many of the differences between močiutės mezgimas and standard Western knitting techniques.

A Lithuanian knitting book made with lots of Lithuanian involvement

I’ve been working on this book with my co-author June Hall since 2007, with several trips to Lithuania for both of us between then and now, along with uncounted hours of writing, knitting, and editing.* We are finally ready to send the files to the printer. To pay for this, I’ve been holding a Pubslush crowdfunding campaign (like Kickstarter but only for books) and we're over 100% funded today with just 5 days left to go! I’m so excited that so many people are helping me make this dream come true in a way that will give back to the Lithuanian economy. The book is being printed in Lithuania, and the extra funds that come in will go to our Lithuanian art director, Marius Žalneravičius.

I hope you’ll take a minute to check out the fundraiser. If you like what you see, you can also pre-order your copy through this campaign and get some special rewards as an extra bonus!

Thanks!

~ Donna

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* Not to mention lots of language study, leading up to and during the project.

More from Deb: I signed on early at Pubslush to get one of the first copies of Lithuanian Knitting. This is going to be a very cool book that I’ve been following and supporting since it was a vague dream. If you go to the Pubslush page, you can see Donna’s video and hear some snippets of Lithuanian music and see preliminary pages—well worth the 4 minutes.

There are more posts in the book's blog tour here. Felicity Ford's post has a photo of Lithuanian coarse-wool sheep.

"Sugar-coating the cruel world of wool!"

Late last year I received an e-mail message that I answered personally, but I haven’t had time for blogging in a while (as some may have noticed), so this inquiry and my response didn’t get shared. This morning on Twitter I was asked for information on cruelty in shearing, which led me to find my previous blog post on the topic and to pull out that December 2014 message and my response to share here. I was going to write a blog post this morning on a different topic. Perhaps I’ll have time early next week to get to that one.

Hello Deb,

I just came across an older blog of yours where you fail to expose the horrors of wool! Now that we know how horrific it actually is for the sheep, I wish you would update the inaccurate information stated there.

Here is an extremely educational link from PETA!

Thank you,

CL

My response:

Thanks so much for caring about the sheep, C. I am working (hard) to support the NON-cruel collaboration between humans and sheep—in direct opposition to the highly industrial practices that are being exposed by PETA. The raising of animals for wool in small, well-managed flocks does not involve *any* of the activities in that article, with which I am all too familiar. And shearing doesn’t have to be any more “cruel” than a haircut, when done with skill. I’d invite you to explore the differences between the types of shearing equipment and the techniques of using it in order to understand this.

As another example, mulesing applies only to specific breeds bred in specific ways (large flocks) within specific environments. It is, fortunately, being eliminated from husbandry practices. The difficulty is that the problem for which it is the cure (flystrike) is worse than the mulesing. In my opinion, the answer is to raise different breeds in smaller flocks, chosen to suit the environment.

And so on.

My blog is not a place where I choose to engage in the extended discussions of these topics that are necessary to cover them adequately. Those are matters for longer-form consideration and writing. The primary goal of my work through the blog is to support the people who are caring for animals responsibly, in part by helping create a more robust market for cruelty-free wools. That involves helping crafters sidestep the vast majority of manufactured fibers and go direct to the source, using their own hands to prepare and use fibers from carefully raised animals to make textiles that will last for decades, if not generations.

I agree with you (and PETA) that large-scale, industrial production harms animals, humans, and the planet. I do not agree with you or PETA that all sheep (and domesticated animals) are treated cruelly and thus should be eliminated from the biosphere—which is the logical result of following the PETA point of view to its end. Humans have domesticated some animals and have an ongoing responsibility to treat them with great care. In my personal case, that involves (1) vegetarianism (of many decades’ standing) and (2) educating people about wool and sheep in ways that foster respect, gentle husbandry, and the conservation of genetic diversity.

I would also add some notes on statements in the final paragraph of PETA’s article. The first statement is this: "No amount of fluff can hide the fact that anyone who buys wool supports a cruel and bloody industry.” I would agree that anyone who buys wool without knowing where and how it was grown might be supporting practices that we need to eliminate (“might be supporting” because it’s possible to have purchased well-sourced fibers and not be aware that that’s what they are; if you’re not paying attention, then you wouldn’t know). The second statement is this: "There are plenty of durable, stylish, and warm fabrics available that aren’t made from wool or animal skins.” That’s true; yet many of those fabrics depend heavily on the petrochemical industry for both the materials and their processing, and as a result they produce huge amounts of pollution and economic and social instability, even wars. Far better, I think, to be fully conscious of and to mend our relationships with sheep, and to move away from the throwaway culture that has led to industrial-scale production of all fibers.

For a fuller example of what I think about these topics and what we can do about them as individuals, please see the following blog post: http://independentstitch.typepad.com/the_independent_stitch/2011/04/is-using-wool-cruel.html

With best wishes,

Deb Robson

Iceland 7 - Hveravellir, and Þingborg

For reasons why the blog posts are getting farther apart, check out my newsletter (of which there will be a new release soon, but this blog post comes first).

Up over the top

After learning more about winter housing of sheep, we got back into our mountain-ready bus and went up over the Icelandic Highlands. There are reservoirs providing hydroelectric power, and we were told there are also mountains and glaciers and gorgeous views.

We made what passed for a lunch stop at Hveravellir, a well-known geothermal area between the two largest glaciers in Iceland, Langjökull and Hofsjökull. 

Apparently this was not an appropriate place for a busload of people to make a mid-route stop. I’m sure the folks at Hveravellir are nice enough on a normal basis, but our welcome was not warm and we ate in the rain. Ólafur assured us this was not typical of Icelandic hospitality. I walked over to take a look at some of the hot springs, although I didn’t venture out to see the farther areas. I was already coming down with a bit of a cold and didn't want to push my luck.

The map two images back shows the tip of the Langjökull, the larger portion of which appears below. After lunch we drove south along the road that skirts its eastern edge. 

After a lot of this. . . .

and this. . . .

. . . beautiful in a moonscape sort of way (and, amazingly, inhabited at this season by occasional sheep), we arrived at a small white building with a sign on it, not knowing what to expect except that Ólafur said that they would be glad to see us, and would have some refreshments for us. Both of those sounded appealing.

Þingborg

Written Icelandic retains two ancient characters that aren’t familiar to people accustomed to most western European alphabets: eð or eth (uppercase Đ, lowercase ð), which also is used in Faroese, and þorn or thorn (Þþ), not used in any other modern language. Although their pronunciations are slightly different when Icelanders say words using them, someone new to the language doesn’t hear much difference, putting a variant of “th” in place of both (there’s also a touch of “d” in the ð). This can be handy to know when looking for names involving eð or þorn on a keyboard that doesn’t make producing those symbols easy: type in "th."

Thus the website for Þingborg can be found by seeking Thingborg, and the pronunciation is not far off from that.

So: What was this place we were coming to, cold and a bit hungry and wet and having crossed a wide expanse of the moon?

Wool, it said—a friendly word.

Another sign around back:

We went through a small door into the lower level of what used to be a school, and found smiling women welcoming us with a table with a selection of cheeses and breads and beverages: quite the contrast to Hveravellir.

After we nibbled and chatted and warmed up a bit, someone among us discovered that if we climbed up a short flight of stairs, went through a medium-sized workspace, and down another half-flight, there was a shop.

Keep in mind that we had already seen superb Icelandic fiber-related shops, including the Handknitting Association of Iceland (in Reykjavik) and Ullarselið (in Hvanneyri). This was the end of the conference. We were tired. We may have been just a bit overloaded and jaded.

But what we walked into woke us up all over again.

The building used to be a school, but in 1990 the school moved to a new building and the following year a group started using the space for something knitters and spinners from other parts of the world would recognize as informal guild meetings. Now the structure houses workshops, a small gallery-like area (creatively manifested hats! in the front rooms, not for sale), meeting rooms, a dye studio, and the shop (finished goods and yarns at eye level, but look under the tables for carders, spinning wheels, and other tools—no small selection, all neatly boxed and ready to be carried off to new homes).

Did I need more wool? I did not—but I left with some yarn, and a small cake of plötulópi (unspun roving) which did not feel quite the same as the version I’d picked up at Ullarselið. (It wasn’t—I’ll explain why in a moment and offer a brief comparison of the two.)

The yarn? I struggled. And I yielded.

I’m not entirely sure what I’ll make with these, but with those colors . . . well, they’re just too beautiful. Yes, when I stray from the naturals of my studies, I find myself fingering the blues quite often. Both skeins were made by Dóra Óskar. The top one is indigo-dyed, and if the bottom one’s dyestuff has been identified it’s in Icelandic and I don’t know, but it’s been overdyed on a mix of light and dark fibers.

I’m open to suggestions on how to use these skeins. Yardage wasn’t on the labels, but I counted about 231 yards (211m) of the indigo and 208 yards (190m) of the variegated. Singles, probably about fingering weight ("4-ply" singles, which always seems as weird to me as calling a yarn worsted weight).

Our adventure at Þingborg continued with more random discoveries. After we’d been there a while, someone asked, “Have you seen upstairs?” Nope . . . so I made my way up another narrow staircase and found a magical room where part of the reason for the difference between Ístex plötulópi and Þingborg plötulópi became apparent. They’re produced on different machines (as it turns out, the fiber is selected and washed a bit differently, too).

I’m pretty sure this is some of Pat Green’s equipment for carding and making pencil roving. That’s his logo on the side of the drum at lower left, and the style (and color) of the machinery look like his. You won’t find information on his cottage-industry tools on his website, and shipping would be a serious challenge, but this room contains just the right tools for the jobs they do and they’re being put to very good use.

The story starts here. . . .

And goes along to about here. . . .

With intermediate steps that I found equally fascinating, but others might not, at least not without the machine present in its entirety so the pieces make sense (instead of being just a series of snapshots).

Next, however, is the piece that might interest more of us. On the left is the plate of plötulópi (unspun roving) from Ístex and on the right is what I got at Þingborg, Yes, they both come in colors, but for my demonstration swatches I cut out the variable of color and pick natural white or as close to it as I can get (which explains the thrill of breaking out of the box with the two dyed skeins shown above).

They are both splendid fiber preps that I would happily use. The differences are subtle. Let's look at what they are, and why they exist.

Icelandic wool is bulk-washed at Blönduós, in northern Iceland. That’s true for the fibers that end up in both of these materials. What’s different is that Ístex wool is processed in much larger lots. During a slow time at the plant, the Þingborg folks bring in specially selected fleeces and use the same equipment, with the help of the normal professionals who operate it, but a different type of scouring solution. The Þingborg plate had already been wound doubled (which is the way plötulópi is often used). The Ístex version was wound as a single strand, although I wound off a doubled portion for my comparison swatches.

What differences did I perceive?

In knitting, the unspun Þingborg wool was slightly less fragile than the Ístex wool. The fibers were slightly longer. (Neither, of course, is held together by twist.)

They worked up at almost the same gauge; the widths of the swatches are identical, and the Þingborg swatch (on the left) is exactly one row shorter than the Ístex swatch (on the right)—but there are 19 rows in its stockinette area to 20 rows in the other’s. (I eyeball my swatch lengths, instead of counting.) Both combine the two coats of the fleeces; the Þingborg swatch is slightly softer (very marginal: they are both delightful). The Þingborg stitches are not quite as bulky or dense as the Ístex ones, the fabric has a touch more luster, and it drapes more. Hmmm . . . I might be able to demo that. . . .

Istex:

Þingborg:

You could probably work up the Þingborg fiber at a slightly tighter gauge, but I like the fabric as it is and wouldn’t want to.

On the other hand, the Ístex swatch has a bulkier hand, is slightly whiter (the Þingborg has a very subtle ivory cast, only evident when it’s right next to the Ístex), and is more even.

Ístex:

Þingborg:

Which would I want to knit with most?

BOTH! For different reasons.

Yet at first glance, they’re identical, except for the size of the plate and the fact that one has been wound with two strands together (Þingborg) and one is a single strand.

Now I need to finish putting together something that resembles a newsletter—and wash more Shetland fleeces. The two Shetland-focus spinning retreats are starting in a month, and I have a significant amount of prep done—and more to be accomplished. Four more fleeces arrived yesterday and I need to get them into the bathtub.

{Note: Because the first Shetland-wools retreat was full to overflowing, we added a second one, November 2 to 7 (arrive November 2, retreat November 3 to 6, depart November 7). They're both in the San Juan Islands, in Washington state. There are still some spaces available in the additional retreat. (Background information is here; questions? check in with jess at drobson dot info—I'm washing and packing wool and prepping handouts.) Given what it takes to put together an all-Shetlands event like this, it's not something that will likely come along again. I might do another, but right now I think this is it. Reasons to be explained in that newsletter I mentioned. I'm having a blast getting ready—and it's taking months, and thousands of miles, to do it right. . . . }

Iceland 6 - Winter housing of sheep, one view

After Icelandic sheep are brought down from the mountains, those that will be wintered-over spend some time in pastures closer to the farms. Counts of Icelandic sheep are always given in terms of the winter flock, and thus do not include the lambs (that number would be almost three times as large, because many Icelandic ewes have twins—the breed’s lambing rate is 170 to 180%, or higher). Wintered-over flocks range in the hundreds up to a thousand or so sheep.

So: keeping sheep inside—how does that happen? As part of the North Atlantic Native Sheep and Wool Conference, we had the opportunity to see one of the largest and most modern winter-housing facilities, constructed several years ago by a farmer named Christian. As with many of the events, catching folks’ names was difficult. While I got many questions answered there, I have even more now—and if anyone who is reading this was there and wants to supplement or correct what I'm saying, you're most welcome to do so!

Note the round, plastic-wrapped hay bales to the left in the photo. More on those later (but a one-minute YouTube video of making them here: six layers of plastic, we were told, wrapped green, allowed to ferment slightly into haylage).

Ólafur Dýrmundsson (left) translated our questions and Christian’s responses.

The inside of the building has been set up for the comfort of both sheep and humans. It’s quite a contrast from the half-year that the flock spends in the mountains! And I think it's amazing that the sheep can adapt to the dramatically different living situations.

Established areas accommodate the bulk of the ewes (larger pens along the righthand side), the older ewes or others that need extra attention (the smaller pens at the right front), and other groups. The left side (mostly out of the photo, to the left of the walkway) is a long run, uninterrupted by barriers.

Here’s a view of the standard pens, with feeding bins at the rate of one for every two pens. The slotted floors allow manure to drop through to an open area beneath the building, but the openings are small enough that even the lambs’ feet can’t get caught after they're born here in the spring.

Mating and lambing do take place in this facility. Christian is in the minority among Icelandic farmers in that he manages his breeding the old-fashioned way: with rams. Most Icelandic sheep reproduction takes place through artificial insemination. (For more details on this topic than most of us need in daily life, here's a PDF of one of Ólafur's papers; suffice it to say that our primary guide on these travels is one of the top experts, if not the top expert, on sheep in Iceland.) Christian buys rams from the few locations where that’s permissible, because they are certified to be disease-free. He allocates one ram to each of the main pens (just during the breeding season; note that the barriers between pens are solid, which in part is to help keep the rams from seeing and being competitive with each other).

Here’s an adjustable feeding bin: the height can be changed with the boards along the sides, and the width with the rails. Each can hold a large round bale of hay (about 500 pounds, although the weight of a bale varies depending on what's in it), and the adjustments allow the sheep monitored access to the food, so they don’t get too much or too little. If I’m remembering correctly, Christian goes through 1,000 bales in a winter.

The design includes rails overhead for the transport of those bales of hay to the farthest reaches. A tractor can come in through the big door and offload bales. You can see two of the grippers (like huge calipers) that are used to lift bales—one is against the wall at the end of the orange rail on the righthand side, and once you recognize its shape you can see a second silhouetted against the large door, suspended from the center rail.

Sheep that need additional attention are housed close to where the humans spend the most time (by the door where the hay comes in).

The set-up has been devised to provide effective ventilation; temperature control; and more.

Because the sheep were just about to come down from the mountains, the group had access to the whole structure and examined it in detail, with some folks taking measurements.

The new system is not perfect. It has made many major chores easier, but as with everything in life, changes in one part of an ecosystem produce changes in other parts. Christian said that there are some downsides, although they are outweighed by the benefits. One complication is that the sheep experience a few more lambing problems than they did when they were housed in the older, smaller units, because in that situation the ewes could occasionally get outside during the winter and have a different type of exercise. Of course, they get serious workouts when they go to the common grazing areas, during the entire summer, and on the return trip in the fall. I didn't think to ask whether, or how, the sheep might get in shape for the journey before undertaking it in the spring! I would guess that they are pastured for a while before they set out. On the positive side, feeding and breeding are a lot easier to manage now, and Christian can keep a close eye on every sheep.

Building this facility involved huge investments of thought, time, and money. It's state-of-the-art for winter housing of sheep in an environment noted for severe winter storms. ("The lowest winter temperatures in northern Iceland and the highlands are generally in the range -25 to -30°C [-13 to -22°F], with -39.7°C [-39.5°F] the lowest temperature ever recorded." That quote is from the link in this paragraph—but temperatures only tell part of the weather story.)

Christian’s next chore before the arrival of the sheep was to go underneath the building with his tractor and remove last year’s manure (which will be used as fertilizer) in preparation for the start of this year’s collection, and then to go bring the sheep down from the high common grazing.

Our next chore was to get back on the bus.

Iceland 3 - sheep roundup

Preface: The sheep roundups we saw were highlights of my time in Iceland, and also emotionally difficult for me. As much as we textile folk hear about Icelandic wool, the primary market is meat, principally lamb. Most of the four-month-old lambs born last spring leave the roundup area on trucks headed for the slaughterhouse, or abattoir. There was an abattoir tour as part of the North Atlantic Native Sheep and Wool Conference this year, as there was last year. The management of this aspect of sheep raising plays a critical role in the overall economic and welfare picture. Every farmer and shepherd I have met cares a great deal about the welfare of the animals, up to and including the slaughter. (Some don’t, of course, but I haven’t met them.) Part of me thinks that in order to have a comprehensive view of the world that I research I should fully understand this part of the cultural picture as well, and should not shy away from direct contact with the meat processing, but I have not been able to bring myself to do so. (I did visit the tannery, although I didn't take the tour or stay as long as others.) I don’t eat meat, for many reasons, and that choice has worked for me for decades. I do want to see increased use and valuing of wool—which I think is appropriate from multiple perspectives, including the ecological, long-term economic, aesthetic, and ethical. I suspect that if I forced myself to personally witness the meat-processing aspects of sheep farming I would not be able to continue my work, which I think is important—or I wouldn’t be doing it. I don’t judge the existing situation. I would like to see a shift in priorities and values in the larger economy. I’m perfectly aware that this is like somebody in a kayak wanting to change the course of a cruise ship (and I’ve paddled a kayak around an anchored cruise ship, so I know exactly what sort of size disparity I’m suggesting). What I can do is paddle my kayak, admire the sheep and the humans who care for them, and hold the hope that some of my actions may make a difference in the long run. But I need to leave the meat-related parts of this story to those who are involved with them. And so, other than to mention my personal challenges here, I will simply note—and not elaborate on—some aspects as we go through the roundup.

Roundup

Most Icelandic sheep spend the months from approximately May to September on their own in the common grazing areas. Flocks have assigned areas, and return to the same location annually. The types of landscape and quality of grazing vary, but all are remote. Familiarity with the environment likely helps members of the flock retain an understanding of weather patterns, sheltering areas, vegetation, and other aspects that help ensure the animals' survival over the summer.

In September, the sheep are rounded up and sorted by owner. The ewes are mated in the fall and spend the winter in shelters. Shearing takes place in the fall and again in the spring; the fall wool, cleanest and whitest, has the most value. Spring wool contains more vegetable matter and may be off-color, because it has been grown under more restricted conditions. After lambing in the spring, the sheep return to the common grazing areas.

Roundup schedules vary by common grazing area, and generally take four or five days of intense work involving sheep, humans, horses, and dogs. The sheep walk a long distance into the mountains in the spring—and walk a long way back in the fall to a sorting area; each grazing unit has its own facility, consisting of a large fenced pasture that initially contains the sheep after they come off the mountains, connected to a central, circular enclosure into which smaller groups of sheep are released for sorting, which in turn is surrounded by pie-shaped pens for the sorted groups. From these smaller pens the sheep are trucked off, either back to the appropriate farm (ewes, for breeding) or to the abattoir (most lambs and the older ewes who will not be bred again).

We watched two parts of the roundup process at two different locations: we saw the sheep coming down from the mountains in one area, and the sorting at another location. Here’s an overview of what a sorting area looks like, because you need to be able to get an aerial shot to comprehend the structure. That image is a pretty fancy one! They can be constructed from a variety of materials, including wood, concrete, or whatever is available that will be strong and durable enough.

From the rain-spattered bus window, we caught sight of one sorting area as the sheep were still coming down from the mountain but due to arrive in the foreseeable future. The building is a community house, which offered us some shelter while we waited. To its left, that big brown area contains the sorting pens. The sheep would be coming from the right and across the road.

After watching for an hour or so, we caught sight of the first horses and riders. At the far edge along the horizon, you can see the next batch, which turned out to be about a dozen horses that had also spent the season on the range.

Not too long after that, the lines of sheep began to appear.

They arrived in clusters, and spread out as they got near the road, where interesting grass grew.

They were encouraged to cross the road. . . . 

. . . which they tended to do at a bit of a run. At this point, everyone involved was tired—sheep, people, dogs, horses. They’d been walking for literally days, and were ready for a rest.

Just the other side of the road, they were funneled into the large holding area, where they would spend the night resting up. Sorting would follow the next day.

Again through a rainy bus window: an indication of the way multiple generations were involved—both with the roundup and with the sorting. There were toddlers, and there were ninety-year-olds. It’s definitely a family and community event.

That was the first stage of the roundup, involving perhaps 30 people and 12,000 to 15,000 sheep. A number of days later, another, smaller group of people will go out and do a second pass over the same area. Finally a skilled pilot with intimate knowledge of the terrain will fly over, looking for more sheep and will communicate their locations to a smaller crew on the ground. Then that job is done for the year.

Now we skip to the other location for an actual sorting. The perimeter was lined with cars and small trucks filled with rain gear, picnic equipment, kids, and other necessities.

There are many more people involved on sorting day than on the long days of the roundup.

Interesting window sticker. . . .

Within the circular center section, representatives of each flock grabbed likely sheep . . . 

. . . checked ear tags and earmarks (distinctive for each farm, and useful if tags are lost) . . . 

. . . and put each sheep into the appropriate pie-shaped pen.

Some pens were fuller than others.

Sometimes the vegetation in an adjacent pen was more appealing.

Mostly the sheep were grateful to settle down once they’d been put in their assigned location.

Iceland has had problems in the past with disease transfer that have resulted in large-scale slaughter of animals. A number of measures have been put in place to prevent a recurrence of similar problems. Since before the middle of the twentieth century, no new sheep have been introduced to the country. If you see a sheep in Iceland, there’s no guessing game about what breed it is. In addition, the country has been divided into regions. Each region has a characteristic color of ear tag. Sheep that are missing identification or that have strayed from another region are placed in the slaughter group. In addition, most of the breeding takes place through artificial insemination. We did meet a farmer who breeds his ewes “the old-fashioned way,” buying in rams from the handful of disease-free locations from which it is possible to transport animals.

Speaking of transport, while there were large trucks arriving and departing with loads of sheep, going either to farms or to an abattoir, one nearby farmer transported ewes to pastures with a tractor-pulled trailer that needed to ford a fairly wide river (almost a small lake).

Here are two posts from Baablog, by a U.S. shepherd who participated directly in a roundup:

Day 1

Day 2

And here’s a post by an Icelandic farmer with a small flock.

Most Icelandic sheep are white, but we were told that colored percentages of the wool clip have recently increased some, to about 17 percent.

Some farmers breed more colored animals than others.

From the commercial wool-processing perspective, the most valuable fleeces are the solid colors. From a handspinner’s point of view, the multicolored ones have a lot of appeal.

White, black, brown, solid, or patterned, aren't they pretty sheep?

Iceland 2 - miscellany

The last post gave an overview of geography and travel. This will grab a few random impressions. The next one will dig into content. I’m warming up—!

Reykjavik served as base of operations for the beginning and ending of the trip. It has a lot of touristy shops, and some others, like the one operated by the Handknitting Association of Iceland, that warranted repeat visits. What gorgeous sweaters! Also mittens, hats, gloves. . . .

We also encountered samples of the Icelandic sense of humor, as in the Woolcano gift shop.

Icelanders need to, and do, take the extremes of their geological environment in stride. Lava fields are everywhere (there’s a remarkable and extensive one on the route from Keflavik airport into Reykjavik). It’s standard knowledge that IMO stands for Icelandic Met Office, and that “met” stands not for “metropolitan” but “meteorological,” an organization that issues regular, thorough updates. Eruptions, earthquakes, and floods—potential or actual—are part of everyday life.

Iceland presented more challenges than most places (other than, say, Idaho and Oklahoma) for the traveling vegetarian. Reykjavik, fortunately, offered up two restaurant treasures, both of which were also comparatively reasonably priced.

Gló: what can I say? I wish we had a place like this back home. The menu changes daily, and there are generally three major offerings, only one of which includes meat. Each is marked as to whether it’s vegetarian, vegan, and/or gluten-free. The cuisine features raw-food principles, and although that’s not something I know much about the results tasted great. You can choose just to have the main course or, as most people did, a main course plus your choice of three side salads, selected from an array of ten or more that change, depending on what’s most available. Adding the salads to the order only minimally increased the pricing, and resulted in a luxurious array of flavors.

We never got around to doing more than admiring the desserts. And on my last visit, I was asked if I’d like a frequent-diner card. Tempting, except that I was about to leave.

Just down the street from Gló is Garðurinn, a fully vegetarian restaurant, open only for lunch. The week’s menu is posted outside, with one soup and one other offering, each in small or large sizes.

Inflation means the Icelandic krona, or ISK, isn’t worth much. A comparatively inexpensive meal ran ISK 1200 to ISK 2500, which is equivalent to $11 to $21, or £6.50 to £13.50. At one location I paid ISK 1800—$16 or £9.50—for a bowl of soup and a small cup of tea. Fortunately, the soup was excellent.

For the days outside of Reykjavik, it was me and the grocery stores. I had let the conference know that I’m vegetarian so they wouldn’t include me in the meat count, but there wasn’t any way to accommodate alternate choices, so my challenge was (as it has been in other locations) to equip myself with food that was nutritionally balanced, tasty, didn’t require much refrigeration or heating, and could be neatly eaten on, say, a bus. Also that I could identify in an Icelandic store. Mainstays included various types of crackers and flatbreads, hummus, carrots, sweet peppers, apples, a bit of cheese, fruit-and-nut mixes, and, one of my new favorite foods that is unfortunately not available at home,* skýr. Skýr’s description makes it sounds like a variant of Greek yogurt: it’s cultured milk—in this case, skim—that has been strained. It’s smooth and thick. But it isn’t Greek yogurt. And the flavored skýrs I had in Iceland were nowhere near as sweet as the flavored yogurts in the U.S., Greek or otherwise.

* Siggi’s is marketed with both the yogurt and the skýr names on it, yet it’s different in texture and taste from what I had in Iceland. Apparently skýr from Iceland (or, if made in North America, under the auspices of the same source as the Icelandic skýr that I enjoyed most) is selectively available in some U.S. regions, not including where I live.

As I mentioned in a previous post, rainbows became a regular part of each day.

So did sheep, most of whom, however, were skittish enough that they’d turn tail and bound away when the bus passed by, even when they were in a fenced field and fifty yards or so from the road.

These were braver than average.

I got one slightly better photograph of Hofsjökull, the glacier on the east side of the mountain track on which we traversed the highlands. (Vatnajökull, the larger glacier farther to the east than Hofsjökull, is the one under which the current volcanic activity is taking place, focused on Dyngjujökull, an outlet glacier along its northern perimeter. Correct me if I’m wrong, please. Keeping track of what’s a glacier, what’s a river, what’s a volcano, and why the names overlap has been one of the challenges of this trip.)

Waterfalls, mountain vistas, breathtaking scenery—well, we missed a lot of that. As part of the return trip from Blönduós there was a tentative plan to stop at Gulfoss (a waterfall) and Geysir (hot springs), but we ran out of time.

Finally, on the last full day in Iceland, I got to see two of the country’s striking waterfalls. I was grateful to get a glimpse of what photos document and books enthuse about.

I’m pretty sure this is Seljalandsfoss. We didn’t have time to go up to it for a closer look, although what I read tells me that if it was indeed Seljalandsfoss you can even go behind it. That would be an experience!

A little farther down the road was Skógafoss, which we did investigate more closely because the turnoff also leads to Skógasafn, the folk museum that was our destination.

Thanks to the light rain that was falling, a here-again-gone-again rainbow complemented the plunging water.

Again thanks to limited time and the rain (which intensified during our foray), we didn’t climb to the top. Still: I got to see a couple of Icelandic waterfalls, and they were, indeed, spectacular.

Scottish Highlands 1

The time came to leave Shetland.

I flew into Aberdeen, rented a car, and met up with Jeni Reid. As I noted in an out-of-sequence post earlier, we went to visit a flock of Valais Blacknose sheep, which were hard to photograph only because they were so friendly.

We tore ourselves away and kept moving west. We drove a lot of roads that are closed or impassable in the winter. These are the sorts of places where sheep ramble around without fencing. It reminds me a little of parts of the American West, where if you want to keep livestock off your property, you fence them out. 

Scottish Blackface sheep crossing the road. . . .

We stayed in a hostel and came across a flyer for what became one of the highlights of the trip: the Knockando Woollen Mill.

What a treasure! It’s a restored historic site and a fully functioning mill.

(The shadows across that image are cast by bunting made of rectangles of fabrics of the type produced at the mill over the years.)

There’s a mule spinner to make the yarn. . . .

Looms to weave fabric (still working after more than a century). . . .

And machinery for finishing fabric. . . .

I love the way natural teasels are still in use to brush fabrics, and not just at historic sites.

The mill is such a pleasant place that people from the area come there just as a place to visit. The lovely gardens are created by volunteers. The food in the café is worth the trip all on its own. And the interpretive film shown in a room adjacent to the shop is so good I bought a copy on a USB drive to take home. The Knockando Woollen Mill is a class act, all the way through.

We continued west on increasingly smaller roads, heading for the northwest coast of Scotland.

The highlands are beautiful in August.

Yes, it rained. . . .

. . . but it also sometimes didn’t. The afternoons tended to be clearer than the mornings.

We went to visit Helen Lockhart of Ripplescrafts. We’ve connected through Twitter for quite a while, and after saying we need to meet in person sometime, we finally did. 

Helen works color magic in her compact and well-organized studio-shed.

Although, given the weather, she has to be creative about where and how she hangs skeins to dry.

There were also some inside the house.

The tent arrangement has been the site of some interesting corollary events, like when a wren made her nest inside a skein. After she was done with it, it went on display in the natural history exhibit in a nearby town.

Because the afternoon sky was bright, we rambled up to a high spot for a look around.

Lexie chose not to join us.

Peggy did.

Sunny and breezy!

With sheep at the same elevation. (Cheviot.)

Jeni and I also took an evening walk down to the bay, where she undoubtedly got better photographs than I did, although some of mine aren’t bad.

Scarp, who is one of the best dogs on the planet, went with us.

He does not chase sheep.

Which is a very good thing, because they are everywhere.

Adjacent to the friend’s house where we were staying are both a classic phone booth (which turns out to be a good place for cell phone reception as well as a functioning land line) and a post box.

So I wrote and mailed a couple of postcards from the top of the world.

It’s a gorgeous place, and I got quite proficient at driving single-track roads.

More Scottish highlands to come.

Rambling around Shetland, 4--sheep

While I was in Shetland, I also watched sheep—in addition to those I saw at the Cunningsburgh show. I could have spent the whole time running around looking at flocks, but I had other types of research to do that needed to precede the conversations I might have with the sheep and their people (for the most part). I did visit some flocks. But I also simply noticed which sheep were where.

This black sheep was not where it belonged, nor where it wanted to be.

It was actually loose, and able to get out onto the main road leading to the airport (the A970, which is the main north/south route). In the photo above you can see the road with the airport beyond it. Lots of sheep ramble around without fencing in Shetland, but not intentionally in locations like that. So before I went to the Jarlshof historic site, I stopped in at the nearby Sumburgh Hotel (which looks like a terrific place to stay) and asked at the desk if they knew who to notify about the errant sheep.

They got in touch with the owner. I noticed a while later (while I was touring Jarlshof) that he came by, and then there were three sheep outside the main enclosure, but all effectively blocked from getting to the road.

Those are sheep in Shetland, but they are not sheep of the Shetland breed. They are also in a location where there is grass and where their welfare can be monitored on a regular basis. The “which sheep are where?” question hinges, for the most part, on those two factors.

These Suffolk tups (rams) grazed in lush surroundings near the Crofthouse Museum: again sheep in Shetland, but not sheep of the Shetland breed.

Of course, I saw plenty of Shetland sheep of the Shetland breed as well. A number of Shetland tups were in inbye fields (inbye being close to houses, as opposed to hill-grazing areas), enjoying some feasting before they go to work in the fall ensuring that there are plenty of lambs next spring.

However, Shetland sheep are easiest to find if you get out away from the main human habitation areas: away from two-lane roads, and into places where there are single-tracks with passing lanes. Rumble across the subtle barrier of a cattle grid* and start driving more carefully, because sheep will be next to and wandering on the road. I don’t know if there are any other breeds in these areas, but I doubt it. Many people assure me that any other type of sheep won’t survive in that environment and without closer attention. Shetlands have a reputation for hardiness.

* British English. US English = cattle guard. Called this even when it’s sheep that are being kept from crossing outside the area.

I went to visit a flock that is fenced but lives on rougher pastures than the inbye sheep. These are the ewes. . . .

. . . and these are the handsome rams.

They’re owned by Mary Macgregor, who has published a book of Fair Isle patterns collected by Robert Williamson and whose croft is as close to Foula as I got.

On the way to see Mary and her sheep, I also passed a spot where a flock had been gathered for shearing. These are the post-haircut crew. I counted six shearers working, most with hand shears although at least one set of electric shears ran off a generator.

Nearby were some question marks. There appeared to be a mix in this field. That’s likely a Shetland on the left. The one in the middle has a Texel-y appearance (face, set of the ears, and stance). The one with its head down has four horns. There are genes for this in the Shetland breed, but they aren’t common. The tail would provide additional information, but the photo doesn't show its shape clearly enough and I didn’t take the time to get permission to go into the field or to simply ask the owner. At that moment, I didn’t really need to know; the pieces of information I filed mentally were “mixed flock” and “interesting horns.” Again, this was pasture, carefully maintained, and close to the relevant house.

In Shetland-spotting, the first giveaway is location. Another clue: color. White Shetlands abound, but colors also appear frequently, especially in the hill sheep. (Inbye Shetland sheep tend toward the white and moorit, or solid brown, and at this season were often rams. Colored sheep could also be Zwartbles, but they’re bigger and have a characteristic marking pattern of white-on-black—not at all like the markings on the sheep below right—and will be in the cushier digs.)

Shetlands (through the windshield):

Shetlands:

Shetlands (the fence is behind them, and I took the photo from the road):

Shetlands, wandering around on top of a fairly bleak hill reached by a gravel, potholed road, and home to telecommunications sites, both currently functioning and abandoned:

Shetland, sheltering, not far from those other two:

Driving down the other side of that hill, different types of sheep began to appear as I got lower and closer to where people were living. These are likely Shetland-Cheviot crosses.

These are Shetlands (great color on the righthand one).

Scottish Blackface: another sturdy breed, able to live on rough turf, but not let loose on the hills with the Shetlands for many reasons.

On St Ninian’s Isle, a mix of crosses, with lots of green to eat and not too far from the tending humans.

Another thing that I became more familiar with was the predators that cause the most losses of lambs and weak sheep. For the most part, in Shetland that means birds, and I suspect they are primarily a problem to the hill flocks.

For example: the bonxie, or Great Skua. This one was flying over St Ninian’s Isle.

Another concern is ravens (and PDF here). I’m pretty sure that’s what these were; I’m only a casual birdwatcher, but the only crows in Shetland are hooded crows, which can also do a lot of damage to a flock, and they aren’t all-black like these birds (which I saw before they took flight).

Understanding the threats to a breed of sheep is also part of getting a good idea of what “hardiness” means and what influences people’s decisions of which types to put in particular environments and how to manage them.

Ending on a more directly sheep-y and positive note, I did get to visit with Mary and Tommy Isbister at Burland Croft Trail, and their sheep (it was their poultry I met with earlier in my trip). 

On my walk around the croft, I met up with some caddie lambs (bottle lambs in North America). This one had just had a good snack and had a face and neck covered with milk-spray.

While I was out at Mary’s, she took this photo of me. Windblown, but not rain-soaked.

Even the rainy days were good for sheep-spotting, although the clear days were better. I saw a few hundred sheep, maybe a thousand. That wasn't enough, but it was all I could fit into this trip.

Leaving Shetland and meeting Valais Blacknose sheep

I have more Shetland posts, but my time there was so precious that I focused every minute on doing things that I can't do anywhere else. I even went to the archives again on my way to the airport and looked at three more sets of documents.

Then it was time to fly from Sumburgh (Shetland's primary airport) to Aberdeen.

At Aberdeen there's only one baggage carousel for UK-internal flights, and a belt had broken on one of the conveyors used to removed luggage from the planes, so it took an hour before I could get my duffel and be on my way. Fortunately, it was still early enough that my friend Jeni Reid and I were able to visit a flock of Valais Blacknose sheep while there was good light for photographs. Jeni's photos are better than mine, but I got a few good ones.

There are two flocks of these sheep in the UK, one in Cornwall (on the southwest corner of England) and this flock that we visited in the Highlands of Scotland. (Those are both Facebook links.)

You may have seen images of these sheep on the internet, with people wondering whether they're real or toys.

They are real. It's a Swiss breed. And they are even more amazing in person than in photos: the personalities are utterly charming. It makes it a little difficult to take photos because they want to be next to whoever's around. (Well, they do go eat ultimately, but they are extremely friendly.) Here's Jeni with one of the lovely sheep we met:

Their wool falls into the vast and uninformative industrial category of "carpet wools." So many intriguing varieties of fleeces drop into that hole! Yes, these are wools that require spinners, knitters, weavers, and other crafters to let go of the "softer and finer is better" approach too fiber selection and to think of creative ways to make textiles (not just sweaters and scarves). But they reward that effort with unique experiences and beautiful, durable projects.

Valais Blacknose fleeces vary by individual (of course), but seem to grow about 12 inches (30 cm) annually, with two shearings producing solid and versatile 5- to 6-inch ((12.5 to 15 cm) staple lengths. If I had to give a sense of the hand of the wool, I'm inclined to think of the length and crimp character of some of the English longwools (with a touch of nice luster: not gloss, but pewter-like gleam) along with the crispness and fullness of Cheviot (although the crimp is quite different, so there's not the same bounce).

One more photo of one of the sheep we didn't want to leave behind, and then it's time to be on the road again.

 

Cunningsburgh (Shetland) show, part 2 - sheep

It was easy to spend most of my time around the sheep area at the Cunningsburgh show. There was a lot going on. Initially sheep were arriving and getting settled into their pens, although by the time I got there at 8:45 most were in place.

This is a not-quite-complete view of the sheep section. Shetlands were along the two rows adjacent to the ditch. Closer to the buildings and tents were the sheep of other breeds (mostly rams used in crossing) and the crossbreds.

Here’s a view of the end with the crossbreds (to the left and back in relation to the photo above).

And here are some Shetlands.

Shetlands can (and should) be “stroppy,” or lively. One was a bit too lively and escaped, not through the inadequately secured gate (which would have put it within the confines of a corridor) but over the outside barricade.

That photo was taken when Elizabeth Johnston and I were briefly blocking it from one direction and two other folks were blocking it from other directions.

It went over the ditch and back a couple of times, while another responsible party took over from our direction. The trick in getting sheep to go where you want them to is not being too direct about the whole process or they’ll bolt. Especially Shetlands.

When this one was captured, it was put in JAIL, with a barricade over the top of the outside half of its pen.

Not all the sheep at the show were Shetlands, although there were certainly plenty of those. In the next photo, the sheep in the front with the white blaze is, not surprisingly, a Zwartbles (black-with-a-blaze). Behind it are some Suffolk rams, dyed orange for the occasion.

Someone I met had asked one of the judges why the vivid and unnatural color had been applied. The answer appeared to be that this was so people could tell where the ram was when he was in with a group of ewes out on the hills. I’ve also heard of sheep being dyed colors either to prevent thievery or for reasons of playful artistry.

Here’s a closer photo of a young Suffolk ram.

And an undyed one, behind a Shetland that won a lot of ribbons—in part to show the size differences between the sheep. The ram in the background isn’t even one of the biggest ones. Admittedly, the Shetland is a young ewe, but she’s full-size Shetland.

There was a handful of Scottish Blackfaces.

And some Texels.

And quite a few Cheviots.

The Shetlands were in three groups: white, moorit, and “any other colour."

Judging started at about 10 a.m. and ended around noon.

First the individual classes were judged: many of them, including (for the white sheep) tup (ram) older than three years (“aged”), tup two and three years, tup one year, tup lamb; ewe, ewe with lamb(s) at foot, ewe lamb, gimmer (young female not bred yet), ewe with crossbred lamb(s) at foot. Similar but not identical groups for the moorit and “any colour not included above” groups. I’m just looking at Shetland classes now, because that was where I paid attention.

After the individual classes had been completed, cross-class judging occurred within each group (example: Best Coloured Shetland Sheep), and then across the categories (champions and reserve champions and best of opposite sex).

One of the award decisions within the colored sheep section came down to a choice between this handsome ram:

and this lovely ewe:

Almost all of the judging took place with the sheep staying in their individual pens, but in this case the judge had the two sheep brought into a single pen for side-by-side comparison.

His final decision seemed to come down to extreme niceties of wool quality. (By the way, all of these sheep had been rooed (had shed their wool) or been shorn relatively recently.)

They were very close, and he examined the wool at a number of places on each sheep, taking his time about it.

The ewe took home the ribbon, although on a different day the ram might have.

Isn’t this a handsome ram (tup)? One of the things I learned just by hanging around the sheep pens is that you can tell the age of a ram by the growth sections on his horns. This fellow is four years old.

One of my favorite Shetland sheep wasn’t even part of the big judging process. It was in the children’s pets category.

And on looking at the show catalog, I’ve just discovered that I completely missed the sheepdog classes. Well, I may need to come back another year.

(2,833 entries. No wonder I didn’t see them all.)