Black-Eyed Peas!

I have a whole raft* of ideas for traditions, old and new, in 2018. The first is to honour my Southern roots in the US by eating black-eyed peas on New Years Day to bring good luck in the coming year. I hated them as a child and negotiated with Mom down to three: she thought eating three black-eyed peas might just be enough to save me. 

I love them now. We had a large ham over Christmas and I saved the fat from it to flavour my beans. We buy dried beans -  some of every kind they have at the Asian grocery in Brighton Grove - and a large bag of polenta (corn meal) about every 2-3 years. It takes that long for us to finish them off. The beans soak for about 24 hours and cook in the crock pot for a few hours on high. I generally cook about three cups of dried beans at a time and freeze the cooked beans in smaller portions. Nothing suits beans and ham like some hot buttered cornbread. That was Mom's comfort food and it has become mine as well.



Here in Britain black-eyed peas are sometimes known as cow-peas, which is perhaps too close in my mind to 'cow patty' to sound attractive, but I can see why one might think they bear markings similar to a cow, mmm perhaps a British White?

...there is nothing so easy to create as a tradition.

                                                     Sir Walter Scott

*How is it we use the word 'raft' to refer to a large collection of things when it is clearly a flat wooden thing for floating on water? Turns out that went from the North part of Britain over to the US:

 Do you have a tradition you observe for the New Year?

Season's Greetings

Cousins of Some Fame

Do you have any film-related Christmas traditions? We have faithfully watched Hogfather every Christmas for about a decade. Or rather Bill has, it tends to put me to sleep for some reason. Anyhow, I fought back by obtaining White Christmas.  (Also, I finally got him to watch Love Actually and he Actually decided he Loved it, which was a nice surprise.)

Anyhow, I thought I spotted the name Robert Altman in the White Christmas credits. As Hogfather (part I) began I grabbed my laptop and tried to find out how Robert Altman (of M.A.S.H. and Gosford Park fame) was involved with White Christmas.  Turned out he wasn't, the name was in fact Alton, not Altman, and I lost interest.

But then I Googled Vera Ellen, given that Mom was always a major fan and it sort of rubbed off on me. I was electrified to read that the first husband of Vera Ellen was named Robert Hightower. It was also moderately interesting that her second husband was Victor Rothschild of the Jewish Banking Family Rothschild. Only moderately because I'm not related to the Rothschild's, so far as I know, chance would be a fine thing... I am, however, a Hightower, or rather my great-grandmother was. 

It is generally agreed amongst Hightower genealogists that all the Hightowers in the US descend from a Joshua Hightower who left England for the Virginia colony in the mid-1600's. I looked at people who were DNA matches for me and/or four other maternal cousins who are Hightowers. There were 300-some DNA matches who had the name Hightower in their family tree. I could trace - in a rough & ready sort of way using other people's family trees - them all back to Joshua. So I'm ready to claim any Hightower as a cousin (even if it is 11th Cousin or something silly). 

So who was this Robert Hightower who was married to Vera Ellen? I can show you a photo of him on his second marriage (to yet another dancer).  I'm still researching what I can document about his life and there are some rather sad stories (I've never claimed to have a 'normal' family). However, it seems that he also had a brother and a sister who were successful dancers, though not on the scale of Vera Ellen.  More about them later.

And then, looking for one Hightower dancer, I found yet another, one I should have known about as she was from Oklahoma. If you wish, you can watch Rosella Hightower dancing. I think she is absolute magic!

Details

I found this photo I snapped on our last day in Basel last May. I think it was a big motivator for finding a dressmaking class. Although I like fairly plain clothing, there is something special about a hidden detail - the collar band or under collar, a pocket or coat lining - that can make a garment feel really special. None of the pieces I've made so far has been anything but straightforward, but I can see a day when I indulge myself.

We (re) watched Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them last night. If J.K. Rowling's imagination, Eddie Redmayne's perfect awkwardness or the spectacular creatures weren't enough, consider that the film is set in 1926 in New York and the clothes are to die for. I fell in love with the leather collar band on Newt Scamander's coat in practically the first scene and was captivated by the costumes ever after. I'm not the only one taken with that coat. 

There are entire Pinterest groups based on just figuring out how to make this coat. I'm not telling Bill I found a place where you can buy them in 'adult' men's sizes...

Hardwood Cuttings

Another gardening workshop that both Bill and I attended at Greenwolds Plant Centre was about hardwood cuttings. I'd always heard about being able to take cuttings of some plants but wasn't sure how that worked.

Adam had taken a large number of cuttings from various bushes in their nursery in Blyth. With these he shows us the portion to take, pretty much the growth that took place in the last year. He showed us how to look at the different colours of the branch from the darker, dryer part near the root to the lighter colour towards the bendy part at the end, the softwood. He told us to cut straight across on the bottom of the cutting and on the diagonal at the top, so we'd always know which was the top end when planting. Another tip he gave us was to look for the nodes, sort of like joints, and to always include three.

He gave us tall pots (he had a name for them, but I've forgotten it) with compost in and had us push in our cuttings to where the middle node was just above soil level. That way, if the bottom node didn't take root, the middle one might. He said generally about 60% of cuttings will grow. His description of propagating his stock at the nursery made me think perhaps money does grow on trees. 

For a fiver each, Bill and I came away with about 10 sticks each, including at least two potential willows, buddleias, rose hips and climbing roses plus several other I didn't catch the names of. I've no idea where we'll put them all, but it seemed a great adventure on the day and it was fun to have Bill along for a change.

As advised, we've just left them in the back garden for the winter and then we shall see what happens in the spring!

Grandmother's Birthday

I was wondering what else I might say about my Grandmother, born this day in 1898. She lived to the age of 91. Having been to the GP yesterday for my five-year check up (the NHS doesn't do annual check-ups for my age group), I learned that my blood pressure is once again its usual nice low range and so I have renewed hopes... pending any further news in a few weeks when the blood work comes back.

Anyhow, it occurred to me I'd not looked up any historical information on Booneville, Arkansas (Logan County) so I went to my trusted source for such things, Archive.org . If you don't know about this amazing website you should familiarise yourself with it. I've found endless biographical details of ancestors in Virginia and elsewhere. I've found great historical texts on homemaking. When last month's issue of Threads magazine recommended a couple of books on pattern making, I found one of them on Archive.org and downloaded it - completely free - instead of paying anywhere from $24-104, the prices I found elsewhere on the internet. So, when this website asked for money, like I do with Wikipedia, I paid up. It's a valuable resource I'd like to see continued.

Sure enough there was a book online called Biographical and Historical Memoirs of Western Arkansas. I didn't find any family names listed there, but then I've only had a brief scan of the relevant chapter. I was very excited to read that the Logan County Courthouse had burned down. This is something my Grandmother mentioned a number of times, laughing that no one knew when she was born so she could tell anyone she was any old age at all! She didn't take into account that the Census records of 1900 would have her pegged down. 

However, the story in the book about the courthouse burning reports that it happened in 1874! She wasn't born until 1898. Then again, the book was published in 1891, so perhaps it burned again since publication? And now I'm going to go back and see if her family was even in Arkansas yet at the time of publication. Maybe I should look for a book on Tennessee...

False Memoirs?

I see I visited the library last spring - no surprise there. However I took photos of a display about a group of books, with the title 'False memoirs? Decide for yourself'. I'd only heard of a couple of them, but was intrigued by the titles and the idea they might be questioned. The collection included:

The Girl with No Name, by Marina Chapman. This lady describes the experience of having been raised by monkeys. 

Papillion, by Henri Charriere. You may have seen the film, starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman. A surprising number of these potentially false books have been made into movies.

Three Cups of Tea, by Greg Mortenson. This is a man telling about building schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Controversy follows. Sad that his co-author committed suicide.

Worlds Apart, by Azi Ahmed. Muslim girl trained to be a housewife joins the SAS instead. Not everyone agrees with her account of that experience.

In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote. Originally hailed as 'pioneering work in true crime genre', later there were some flaws uncovered.  

Sybil, by Flora Rheta Schreiber.   I remember the TV show starring Sally Field and I believe that many years ago I actually read the book. Turns out it was all a hoax.

Don't Ever Tell, by Kathy O'Beirne. About her experience of abuse at home and in Catholic institutions, and then being called a liar by family members. True or not true, it doesn't sound a very pleasant book to read. 

The Man Who Broke into Auschwitz, by Dennis Avey. Did he or didn't he?

Go Tell Alice, by Beatrice Sparks as Anonymous. Published in 1971 as an actual diary of a teenager on drugs, it is now thought to be anti-drug propaganda by Sparks, a Morman youth counsellor. I totally missed this book as a teenager and have only discovered it now - 46 years late to the party...

The Long Walk, by Slavomir Rawicz. We're talking really long walk: 4000 miles from Siberia to India. Easy to dismiss as unfeasible but if he didn't, apparently it is thought someone did.

Escape from Camp 14: One Man's Remarkable Odyssey, by Blain Harden. So there are some inaccuracies. 

If these weren't enough I found this article which lists a few of them, plus others, including It's Not About the Bike, by that man I pretend never existed.

Update on Narcissus

The bulbs I planted a few weeks ago have come along nicely, though the grey, rainy background doesn't do them justice.  One of the tricks Fiona passed along is to use twigs from tree branches to support the long spindly stems. She suggested white birch, but since I only had copper beech, that is what I used. No ribbon or string required, just let the branches embrace the flower stem and it all seems quite natural. I'm loving what I learn at Greenwolds Plant Centre.

Visiting a Mosque

Last spring one of the unusual things Bill and I did was to visit the Newcastle Central Mosque. We were invited to a community event by a lady with whom Bill used to work, Afru. They've stayed in touch on Facebook over the years. 

We had the impression that the Muslim community was trying to reach out to non-Muslim people in order to explain their religion and help people feel more comfortable with them. It was a fairly amazing experience. The Mosque was, to be fair, in the midst of some renovation but my first impression was that there was very little money in that 'congregation' (if that's an appropriate word). There was a variety of carpeting in different colours spread throughout the meandering halls and stairs, but no underlay, just a cover for the concrete floors. There were no luxurious furnishings at least not in the part we saw. 

That said, they fed us a delicious, more than generous meal. The starter of various Asian foods would have sufficed, but then the main course and side dishes and even two kinds of dessert came around. Before that we watched a bunch of men and boys file in and kneel for their evening worship. It was a bit surreal standing at the back of the room with a bunch of rear-ends sticking up, but the man singing the call to worship had a beautiful voice and I remember feeling I was suddenly standing somewhere in Arabia or Persia or somewhere exotic instead of chilly, damp Newcastle. The prayer ritual looked fairly demanding, physically  - lots of up and down and bending in half - though it didn't take very long. It made me think a bit of choreography, watching the unison movements. I wondered if they thought it odd we were watching, but no one seemed self-conscious; in fact it was as though we were invisible to them. Perhaps we were.

The back of the room was filled with large posters, each explaining an aspect of the Muslim faith. I was sure I had taken photos of these to read later on, but apparently not. I wasn't sure about the appropriateness of photos initially, though no one seemed to mind. I have somehow only the one. Perhaps because I was so fascinated by what I was seeing and hearing I didn't actually remember to use my camera more?

After that we went upstairs (taking off our shoes) and were served the meal. Bill's friend sat with us along with her sister and, funny enough, a friend I used to work with - name Faith (you couldn't make that up, could you?) was also there. Faith is a Quaker, an intelligent and intellectually curious woman, which makes her excellent company. It didn't seem very surprising that she would attend something like this, though I did admire her coming on her own.

After the meal we had a 'quiz' which frankly tackled some of the commoner myths and misunderstandings about the Muslim religion. I'm sorry that I'm writing this nine months later and can't remember more details. Faith got the top score on the quiz, I remember. Then we had a 'sermon' of sorts by the Imam, a young-ish man perhaps in his 30s or 40s. He explained about Mohammed the Prophet and about some of the harsher laws coming straight from the Old Testament, about their guidelines for tithing and all sorts of things. Then another man stood up and we were invited to ask questions. Faith asked the question most of us had in mind, to ask about the violence committed in the name of Islam. He said some people perverted the religion to serve their own ends, in much the way some so-called Christians do and have done. It didn't mean that their actions were representative of the Muslim community as a whole. I thought it was as reasonable an answer as any. 

I had the impression that they would let me join the Muslim faith if I wanted, but that wasn't their primary purpose for that evening. It was more about showing people who they were. Everyone I encountered was incredibly soft spoken and kind. Afru was very upbeat and fun while her sister was a bit more serious. I remember admiring the scarf the sister wore covering her hair; it was a beautiful, lush fabric. Bill pointed out to me that Afru had divorced her husband and had not been chastised by her religious community. She is a professional woman raising her two children on her own now, very much a part of the modern world.

When we left we were given gift bags containing a scented candle, some pamphlets and a copy of the Quran. I had good intentions at the time, but came to realise I was never actually going to read it. The last time I saw Faith, however, she had and reported that it did indeed have a lot in common with the Old Testament. Bill often points out the parallels between some evangelical Christian ideas and those of extremist Muslims and I can't disagree.

We were both very glad we went, even though it started out a bit uncomfortably - I was just nervous is all. Bill wanted to support his friend and I felt it was one of those things that didn't come along that often and that I would regret not going if I didn't.  If you are ever invited to visit a Mosque I would recommend you go. Take an open mind (like I take to any religious venue) and listen to their take on things. I think you might learn something interesting.

Dancing Like I Type

I've been going to a Zumba Gold (as in for old ladies) class for a couple of months now. It meets at noon on a Monday and even better than exercise, it makes me smile. The ladies there are quite friendly, always smiling and they often come over to chat. I've even run into people I already knew: a consultant microbiologist I used to work with and, once, Meriel's sister in law.

The class is run by a mother and daughter, Irene and Catherine. As much as dance leaders they are almost a comedy act. Irene expresses horror at some of Catherine's burlesque-type moves, then again, Irene shakes her booty pretty well too. The idea is that if you want a gentle workout, follow the Mom, if you want to work harder, Catherine is your leader. I tend to follow Catherine mainly because she wears very bright workout clothes that make her easy to see against the black background.

When Nutbush City Limits comes on, my heart sings along, but other than that I'm not really into most of the music, pop songs I don't know, strange Bollywood type stuff, or - I don't even know what it's called - I think of it as 'gangsta' music (and the choreography matches). I'm not sure what makes me smile more: the comedy act on stage, getting to shimmy and Charleston, or being a room full of women mostly over 60 doing gangsta moves or gyrating their hips.

There is a wide range of fitness and of dance abilities of course. Not everyone understands the way dance generally works (if we do it for 8 counts on the right I'll bet money we're going to repeat that move on the left). Some of the old dears end up just shuffling around and waving their arms, which is perfectly fine; better exercise than sitting in a chair all day. It's taken me several months to get several of the routines and there are still parts I haven't figured out since I can't always see Catherine's feet to follow. 

That's the part I was explaining to Bill about dancing and typing. When I learned to type I read every word but after several years of office work I discovered that sense of 'flow' where the letters enter your eyes and come out your fingers, without reading them at all. That's how people answer the phone and type at the same time. 

After 13 years (aged 3 to 16) of dance training, I've learned to watch someone's feet and to just follow, without much thought. I figure getting the feet right is the first priority, if only not to get stepped on when Catherine says 'travel'. The arms can come later. I can imagine that if you have to think about each step as it's done on the right and then figure out how to do that again on the other side, it can be frustrating. You can tell the ones who have dance experience, they just pick things up faster, and if I can't see the leader I try to follow them instead. 

If you haven't tried Zumba but you like to dance, I recommend you give it a go. I don't think of it as exercise at all, but playtime!

A Bag for Meriel

Meriel is a lady with a lot of social capital. She runs the knitting group I attend and for a long time has been a lynchpin of a craft group to which I also go. I know she is involved with at least one other knitting group, a spinning group, and makes costumes for a local theatre. 

Her interest and dedication - not to mention her and her sister-in-law's clear outs - have provided me with many hours of pleasure and with kind and interesting acquaintances, not to mention much of my sewing stash. It seemed a shame that I'd never found a way to actually thank her. So I made her a bag.




I think Meriel may have once had red hair - it's totally white now, just guessing from her colouring and from her love of colour. Everything she makes is brightly coloured, from all parts of the rainbow. So I set out to make her a rainbow bag. 




I'm not sure I accomplished that, but I did learn about the order of colours enough to organise my sewing thread collection this way, which was fun. 




One of the things that came my way from her sister-in-law was a knitted item made from strips of brightly coloured fabrics. I took it apart and was taken with the colours as no doubt she had been. I was sure these needed to be part of Meriel's bag. I ended up ironing the strips then weaving and pinning them together, then stitching all the rows and columns. It was good fun. That became the inside pocket, which I lined with a rose coloured velvet. Over time I've come to realise that a snuggle-y pocket is a feature I like to include.

As with all my bags (so far), the inside is also a patchwork, of cream coloured muslin or linen. I must have taken this photo to show the patchwork nature but of course the raw edges are enclosed between the lining and the outer patchwork. 





I not only learned the order of colours but that I prefer a mix of bright and neutral shades myself. However, she seemed to like the bag and I felt better having acknowledged the contributions she makes to groups that benefit so many of us.

Frumpy vs Farcical

I'm a huge fan of Imogene Lamport's blog, Inside Out Style. She compiles an enormous amount of information about colour, proportion, contrast, silhouette, etc. to help women look their best. I've bought some of her e-books and one of her courses and I can tell you they are excellent value for money. 

They talk about personal style, a separate issue from current fashion. She has explained to me why I love lace and ruffles but can't bear to think of wearing them (being fair, short and small boned, I'm already feminine enough); why highly textured fabrics make me look like an over-stuffed pillow (because I'm petite and texture is overwhelming); why I tend to avoid wearing prints and if I do, they must be small stripes, dots, paisley or the like (because my comfort zone is 'classic', not 'rebellious' or 'creative');  why some outfits feel like I'm wearing a costume (either because they are suited to a more 'dramatic' personality than mine).

She recently did a post titled "11 Ways to Style Cardigans" and as my old-lady cardi's are part of my British-winter (fall/spring) survival uniform, I read it with interest. Using my principle of 'wear the next thing in the closet', I pulled out a purple and brown print skirt I've had for 10-12 years, my brown knee-high flat boots, a long sleeved tee and a brown v-neck cardigan. 

I thought I'd give one of her tips a try:

As you can see, hers worked well and she looks great. My Edinburgh Woolen Mill cardi with gold buttons down one side and button holes down the other and the now-sideways pockets was a...different look to my usual (you should try this for yourself, you know you want to!).

I went downstairs to the dining room  to show Bill and to discuss. I'm writing to tell you I found a way to bring Bill to his knees. He laughed so hard he folded up and put his head on a dining room chair, helpless to speak. I had a really good laugh as well.

Aside from his reaction I'd already decided it wasn't going to work as it left my middle open to the cold. Besides, I'm a 'classic' woman, not a 'funky' type at all. 

But a good belly laugh is not to be dismissed. And I (seriously) can't recommend her blog highly enough. 

Thanksgiving at Dent

As Bill's three children (all fully-growed now) acquire partners and make babies, finding suitable sleeping quarters in my house is an increasing challenge. 




The last time we had all three kids and families, Bill pulled the motor home up outside the house and ran an extension cord up over the sidewalk. 



Sarah and Gareth said they enjoyed that experience, though the party people on their way to and from the pub were a bit loud and scary. I never notice them anymore, but I remember when I did.





So, just for fun, last year I rented a holiday house in Dent, which we judged was fairly central to the three coming from the NE (Edinburgh) and  SW (Chester). 





As it turned out Sarah and Gareth didn't make it but I knew enough in advance that I only got a three bed house. 





It was an end-terrace house square in the middle of Dent, along a narrow cobbled road. The terrace ended at the pedestrian entry into the church yard, which was the view from all the north facing windows. 

Oddly, the grass of the cemetery came up to the level of the window sills, providing a rather unique perspective. In the front, just across the narrow road was the George and Dragon pub. I had the feeling that folks leaning out of the windows there could just about touch anyone leaning out of ours. 



That was one of the downsides, the noise from the pub.  I'm all for people enjoying themselves, but pub closing time is past my bedtime. Also, there was no parking place outside the house, not that this bothered the tradesmen doing improvements next door or unloading goods for the pub. They parked so close to the front door it was hard not to take it personally. Then again, that was because (I think) they assumed the place was vacant. One of our entertainments was watching drivers edge past each other or inch around the corner (we were at the top of a t-junction), particularly the lorries doing deliveries. Online shopping was clearly the main resource for the villagers.




The ground floor of this house was just a large kitchen and a sitting room with a wood-burning stove. 

One of the oddest roof lines I've seen, or is it a roof within a wall?

The first floor (what would be the 2nd in the US) had our en suite bedroom, another double bedroom (for Simon) and a full sized bathroom squeezed into an odd place under the eaves. 

I've lived with double glazing so long that single panes in sash windows
(as in houses where I grew up) are unusual now.

The 2nd/3rd floor was probably an attic at some point. It had a large room with a telly and a child's bed which opened into a very large bedroom (for Helen, Martin & Charlotte). The views over the hills were lovely from up there.  

I loved the funny little niches in the wall, with stone 'sills'.

In addition to having a cemetery straight out the window, there was a cat flap that opened onto a stone shelf next to the sink. Thinking of food hygiene and resident dog, Daisy, I made sure it was locked. The kitchen was reasonably well appointed with an American-sized fridge, but I just managed to squeeze the turkey into the oven, located strangely at floor level.









I learned about the hazards of south-facing windows, which was a good thing to know. I sometimes envy the neighbours who face north/south but the glare from the sun isn't always a welcome thing. Never mind taking photos, I sometimes couldn't actually see what I was doing. 





There isn't a lot to see or do in Dent if you're not into walking (and when they say 'walking' in Britain they mean as in with boots, in all weathers, more like what you might call 'hiking' in the States). We did enjoy a visit to the museum and tearoom. That said, I had to get back to supervise the turkey so didn't see much of the museum on this trip. Helen surprised me at Christmas with a video about the 'terrible knitters of Dent'.  

Dent is a place Bill goes regularly and I've been a couple of times. The village needed funds to pay for a teacher and so they organised a race, the Dentdale, a 14 miler up and down hills. It's a tough one that Bill did regularly with running buddies he's known 40 years. I've even done it a couple of times. I remember the first year he introduced me to Wensleydale cheese, definitely one of life's greatest pleasures. Bill's the only one of his gang still running, but they meet up every year around that weekend. 

But I've digressed. When you read 'terrible' knitters you should be thinking 'awesome'. The people - men as well as women - knitted as a livelihood and they turned out quality products quickly. It wasn't unusual for people to knit as they walked to the next village, go to a friend's house and knit with them, to knit well into the night. It can't have been an easy way to make a living. 

As with up here in the North East, knitting sheaths (called pricks in Yorkshire) were common. This device tucked into the knitter's belt and held a needle so that the hands were free to manipulate the other three or four (socks being knitted 'in the round'). A wooden sheath was often made by a man as a betrothal gift and they could be quite ornate. The one I remember had a notch, sort of a hook, to keep it from sliding down into the belt. Clever stuff, being able to carve and knit with such skill.

If you Google 'terrible knitters of Dent' you'll find all sorts of stories/videos.



We also visited the historical church and found it attractive. I love the 'box stalls' - I'm sure that's not what they are called - made of wood. I gather there would have been a thermal advantage to gathering all your family into this enclosure, a desirable thing sitting in an unheated stone building.









The food turned out alright and there was plenty of it. As I figured, it was easier to cook in a strange kitchen than to cook at home and clean house from top to bottom in preparation for guests. We stayed up past Charlotte's bedtime playing various games. It was a good weekend as I recall, well worth the rent I paid. 

Sadly, I couldn't get a firm commitment from everyone in time to rent a house this year, so Thanksgiving will be here. The cleaning schedule is on the fridge, next to the shopping and cooking lists. {sigh} Perhaps I should have just grabbed a 4 bedroom house earlier on?

Have you ever gone away for a change of scenery (and to avoid housework?)

More Granny Squares

Were you taught as a child 'not to ask for anything'? I certainly was. It seemed that if I asked I would likely be denied, but if I expressed appreciation without expectation, I might just get lucky. I'm not sure I disagree with this practice, I do dislike a demanding or whiny child. Then again, I've never broken the habit of not asking for much. Bill tells me off for not stepping forward more, for settling for the leavings. 

I would say that in addition to being shy of asking, I do find a rather perverse satisfaction in making something nice from what others have disdained. Like maybe I'm smarter/more creative than they are, which is certainly a false conceit, but there you are.

I tell you this by way of explaining how I ended up crocheting a blanket from thread. Because our knitting group functions mostly from donated 'wool' (the British term for what I would call 'yarn'), we take whatever we can get. The most popular stuff is double knit. Chunky wool or aran weight get used pretty well, but 'novelty' yarn gets left to the last. The cones of very fine wools used in knitting machines aren't very popular either. Meriel has a windy-up contraption that will wind several cones together, but I thought I'd give it a go to use up a few without that. I seem to like my colours like I used to eat my food: one item at a time. Rather than have variegated wool, I selected a fluffy, chenille-like pale green and a more staid navy to work. 

This was also last winter. One weekend Bill had a Long Distance Walkers' meeting down in County Durham at the village of Bowes. I didn't get out and explore but he led me to believe that the Ancient Unicorn Inn (a pub/B&B) constituted the business district of this place. I knew that the spectacular Bowes Museum and Barnard Castle (the name of the town, with a ruined castle) were nearby, but they didn't appeal on my own. 

It was cold and snowy and our room was in what used to be a stable. This meant some nifty arched windows. The pub was across the 'yard' (remember that term?). I asked the landlady to keep the heating on all day for me so I could stay cosy in our room (I may have threatened to make a mess in her pub if forced to hang out there for warmth). I spent the day walking back and forth, stringing the navy thread out around the room and rolling up a triple-stranded yarn to work with. The green I doubled up later at home. 

Bill just pretended he didn't know how I spent the day, he thinks I'm pretty mental sometimes. Which is OK, I think he's crackers going off in the wind, wet and ice to walk the moors for 20 or more miles. He came back from this to a hot shower and then we went off to the pub for dinner with the rest of the crazy people long distance walkers. So we both got to indulge ourselves. 

The blanket took a very long time to complete, but since I loved the colours I didn't mind a bit.