So I have my Traveller's Notebook. I also have this:
If you've been dropping by here for a while you might recognise it as my sock notebook. No? You're right: it hasn't seen a lot of action lately. I made my first entries almost two years ago - I ordered wool for my first ever pair of socks on St. Patrick's Day 2015 (or so the notebook says) - and started recording my progress not long after.
Then, for a bit, I was knitting faster than I could write: the notebook couldn't keep up and I began tucking ball bands and snips of yarn inside, in the hope I'd get back to it. Last week I knocked my notebook off the shelf and, yes, of course, all my carefully curated but completely unattached ephemera fluttered to the floor, all wild and free. So I decided to catch up.
records a big moment in the life of a hand knitted sock: its first hole. When a shop bought sock wears through, we bin it (unless we're a student who works on the who is going to see my feet principle. Maybe your mother? When you come home for the holidays? Let's park that thought and move on..) But it's not so easy to turn your back on hand made. Clearly I had to learn how to darn.
And this page
makes a not of my contribution to Winwick Mum's Sock Line last summer. I think she'll be running it again this year, so I need to remember to leave myself time in the old knitting schedule. Schedule? Sounds like I have a plan. Maybe there's a small one, incorporating a phone photography class in a knitting shop. I'll say that again because it's a magical combination. A phone photography class in a knitting shop. I'm looking forward to it very much. There will be wool, new wool, so I'd better get going on pinning down the details of what I've already used. Just one more sock related note before I go. Pablo Neruda, I recently discovered, wrote a beautiful poem about a pair of hand knitted socks. You can find Ode to my Socks here
"and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.."