Meet Doug the Caterpillar. He’s my draught excluder friend, and is one of very few finished projects that I’ve actually kept for myself. I knitted him a few years ago and he still has pride of place in our hallway; perched right at the entrance to the house, waiting to snuggle up next to our front door and keep the place cosy.
Whenever I travel, I always manage to stumble across two things: cats and wool. Wherever I may be, it’s like an instinct; down a side street, nestled in a small corner of a big city, or in the claustrophobic depths of an ancient street market – I sniff them out.
This weekend was no exception. I was in Amsterdam; a fleeting two night stay for a Hen weekend of drinking interspersed with sight seeing, one of a group of eight hens. Needless to say, it was to be a weekend filled more with heavy drinking than heavy knitting so I had no expectations of discovering Amsterdam’s knitting community. As I dragged myself out of bed at 3am on Friday morning to head for the airport, woolly things were far from my mind.
The problem with a new blog is knowing where to start. I’ve been knitting for a good few years now, even if I’ve not been writing about it; so my head is a tangled mess of woolly thoughts and projects, past and present, all at the tips of my fingers as they hover over my keyboard, ready to spill out on to the page. It feels a bit like the ridiculously long queue of projects I’ve got lined up on Ravelry: every time I look I feel overwhelmed by all the woolly loveliness and I don’t know where to turn first. Maybe if I quit my day job and knit at full speed for the next 50 years, I’ll get to the bottom of it one day.
Anyway, when giving this some thought my mind kept wandering back to the same project: my wedding. This isn’t a surprise really – not only was it a significant milestone in my life, but the knitting that surrounded my wedding escalated to fairly epic proportions. It’s my biggest knitting project, having completely dominated my knitting world for most of 2015.
As I suspect is the way with many young girls in Scotland, I was originally taught to knit by my Granny around the age of five. We sat side by side on the couch in her small, cosy living room whilst she patiently took me through the motions of the knit stitch. It was just one activity of many offered in attempt to entertain an only child as the painstakingly long days of the summer holidays stretched out ahead of us both.