Winter warmer...

On Saturday night, after the afternoon in Manchester and with a day rider ticket in hand, we went into Bolton for a drink. A rare occurrence but an enjoyable one. Among the things we talked about - children, chickens and real ale - we discussed New Year's resolutions. I said that, rather than give something up, I would do something new or different and, after my success with two knitting needles, have set myself the challenge of knitting socks.

The conversation rambled, as is our wont, but one of the things we kept coming back to was the inability, apparent or otherwise, of people to do basic things. It seems skills are lacking, be they knitting and sewing, making sauces and soups from scratch, or understanding where potatoes come from. People no longer seem interested in these things and, especially in Credit Crunch Britain, would benefit from cheaper, more wholesome food if they possessed some basic skills. It also goes without saying that these sort of passtimes provide a welcome excuse not to watch all the crappy programming on television at the festive season.

So this year, I will be learning some new things. How to knit socks, how to make cheese and, hopefully, how to milk a cow. Not the usual run-of-the-mill things to do, but ones I find interesting and, to some extent, challenging. So what of my first knitting project? Well, despite some wayward stitches, the hot water bottle cover is now finished and has already been brought into service warming the blocks of ice that pass as feet on my beloved. Luckily I managed to take a photo before it disappeared under the covers.

Weihnachtsmarkt mit wurstchen...

A combination of greed and high prices has scuppered a trip to Poland for Christmas. Flights that cost £100 in the second week of January suddenly rise to almost £1000 for the week around Christmas.

It’s depressing that we can’t please everyone and be with them for Christmas and I feel terrible Agnieszka can’t be with her family at this time as the Polish Wigilia is much more about a meal with family than the consumerist-obsessed Merrye Olde English feast.

So to get a bit of Christmas spirit we went to Germany for a weekend of Christmas markets. The markets themselves were lovely, with Trier in particular being very pretty.

It seems a nice town, on the banks of the Mosel, with a lovely pedestrianised centre; the markets plonked in the main square and in front of the squat, stone cathedral. On the way we went through a very snowy Ardennes but this disappeared by the time we reached Trier. The days were cold and crisp though, and perfect for wandering around clutching glühwein and eating either Bratwurst (Agnieszka and my dad) or Reibekuchen (me and my mum).
Köln was packed, as it was the last time I was there. How anyone can enjoy the constant shove and crush of people, making it almost impossible to see or do anything, is beyond me. It took a bit of time to get used to the direct (read ‘shoving’) way the Germans push through the crowds, and the way young mums thought nothing of pushing a pram through, jabbing at the heels of the people in front if they didn’t go fast enough.

To make the best use of the time we had, we took the U-Bahn from the cathedral down to Rudolfplatz and from there walked back, taking in three other markets. Unfortunately, we just weren’t given enough time there. Although the drink of ‘Kölsch’ we had wasn’t rushed, neither was it relaxing – or followed by a second.
One thing Trier has that impressed me immensely was a restaurant dedicated to the humble potato. For me it was a dream come true. Almost every dish was potato-based, except for the schnitzels and steaks but even they came with… potatoes. The food was fantastic and choice excellent and the service was good, although we had eight different people come to the table. I was able to practice, plenty of times, my crappy Deutsch but everyone was very patient and listened to me and in most cases I got what I asked for. There was only one wobbly moment, when the woman in the cake shop asked if one teapot was big enough for two people. I still don’t know what words she used but she lost me completely. The tea was so weak it didn’t matter anyway.

Knit one, swear a bit...

As a child I was surrounded by wool. My mum worked in the wool shop in the village and was constantly either knitting at her machine, or sewing up in the chair by the fire. My nan, my mother’s mum, also knit and it was she who first tried to get me to make something, showing me how to cast on, to knit the stitches and to create small rows of knitting. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried I could never keep to the required number of stitches and my rows grew by three or four at each turn. The wrath of a grandparent ensured I didn’t carry on with something I always wish I had.

So in recent weeks I have decided to try again. I have grand visions of Aran jumpers with great fancy cables up them, fishermens’ ganseys made on the round and with no seams, fancy cardigans sported by super-models, all made by my clacking needles in a few days from the home-spun wool of my own sheep. The reality is much more mundane. For a start I have no sheep, which is a big hindrance when you want to knit chunky shepherd-wear. For another, I have had to start from scratch and teach myself the basics. Thanks are due, in part, to my mum for the basic stitches and to You Tube, for some reminder videos.

Women make it look so easy. They sit there on the bus, in the hospital, by the fire, needles blurred and wool ball bouncing as a fancy jumper takes shape in seconds. Me? I spend twenty minutes trying to knit one row. Why? Because the needles slip out of my hands, because I try to knit the loose bit of wool and not the bit attached to the ball, because the stitches slip off the needles, because my fingers are all thumbs, because I knit so tightly I can’t get the needle into the stitch, because I have only been doing it five minutes where many people learn as kids and carry on. Even so, I have almost got the knit stitch sorted. Next on the list is the purl. Once they are ‘mastered’ I can have a go at casting on (because this is something I don’t quite understand how to do), ribs, cables, patterns and casting off. One step at a time. I do find it relaxing though, until the concentration headache starts, but then I just put it down and go and do the dishes or something.
There’s no real rush to learn, I have all winter. If it takes a few weeks that’s fine, although I’ve had to rethink my original ‘Aran’s for everyone’ Christmas present idea. After that it’s practice and only then, when I have the basics learnt, can I move on to the next step – getting a few sheep.

Winter drawers on...

It seems a long time since the last entry, even though it is only a month or so. I have sold a few jars of honey at work but due to the cold weather and dark nights, haven’t been down to see if the bees are ok for a couple of weeks. I’m sure they’re fine, they have plenty of stores and they’re in a sheltered spot. But I should still go, just to make sure.

Work at the allotment has pretty much come to an end. Poor organisation led to there being nothing to plant or, worse, harvest and the experiment of putting some salad and a few extra beans in the unheated greenhouse has come to nothing. In order to try and avoid this next year, I have been checking the catalogues and deciding, in discussion with Agnieszka, what we should try and grow next year. In addition, I have been steaming through a few books now that the nights are dark and there’s not much to do other than huddle round the computer.

From several days the weather has been dull, damp and foggy. Standard summer weather Agnieszka thinks. But yesterday it was bright and sunny, as well as extremely crisp and cold, so we went out for a walk. We ended up in Blackrod, on a walk we’d done before. Nothing too energetic, just a five-miler round the fields and along the canal. After the fog, there was plenty of hoar frost giving grass and trees an almost cartoon-like foliage, making rose hips look like candied peel.
Spiders’ webs were strings of ice crystals and along the road and through the wood there was the constant slithering sound of ice, melted by the watery winter sun, dropping off the branches onto the floor.
In the sun it was relatively warm, but once we’d got into the woods and down into the valley to cross the River Douglas, it got terribly cold. Emerging on to the canal bank later, a sheet of ice covered the water, broken with a sound like an Arctic ice-breaker by a passing narrow boat. The crew, two men and a woman, were bundled up in coats, hats, gloves and scarves but, despite the cold, looked like they were enjoying themselves as they chugged sedately on down the canal in the direction of Liverpool.
For once the walk wasn’t a mud-fest and we managed to get round without getting too spattered. The ground was fairly solid and the paths firm. A robin sang at us as we crossed a bridge and we could hear the wheezing of some geese in flight. Two hours was enough though, and it was back to the warmth of the house and a cup of healing barszcz – surely the best soup ever invented.