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.