Nostalgic knits, timeless treasures

My daughter-in-law Tash loaned me her copy of  "This Golden Fleece, A Journey Through Britian's Knitted History", by Ethel Rutter, after I mentioned that I had enjoyed a McGill University lecture by Beverley Ann Lee on the 5,000 year history of wool. This is a slim, captivating book, both history and memoir. I learned a great deal, including that crossing heaving autumn seas to attend the famous Shetland Wool Week is not for sissies.

That book ratcheted my love (and lust) for Fair Isles, Arans, and Guernseys to the level of fervent devotion. I still want to dress like Virginia Woolf. In that post, which was about scarves, I quoted Woolf: "We may make (clothes) take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking."

Both my mother and mother-in-law were expert knitters, calmly clicking through complicated patterns. Below, the Fair Isle cardigans Grandmaman knit for our sons when they were age three:

I still have these nestled away, in perfect shape, for they were special-occasion wear. (I am keeping them for someone who has twins—or just as art pieces.) She offered to knit one for me, and, reluctant to accept such a labour-intensive gift, I requested a marled scarf instead, which I regret to this day. Le Duc is wearing an Aran that originally belonged to my father.

For Christmas last year, I hinted heavily for this cotton-wool Seasalt vest (n/a) which, though machine-knit, captures the era's charm. This spring, I've been gratefully wearing it over tees and shirts.  

These patterns lend some character to my usual jeans or trousers and, accustomed to washing fine wools in the machine, I don't mind the bit of care they require. 

I'm a stickler for British-made pieces; here are some sources to check out. (You can find cheap Asian-made acrylics or wool blends out there for $40, but not in the Passage.)  All but one are made on knitting machines; the vendors proudly mention their 100% wool yarns.

Clockwise from top left:

1. Pink Fair Isle tank, sale price £135, from the Scottish tailors and outfitters Campbell's of Beauly.

2. "The Pretty", a Fair Isle yoke is an option if an all-over design is too much for you. From Oldfield Outfitters; price, £145.

3. Bosie's "Land Girl" cardigan can serve as a jacket, extending its wear window. This colourway shows the gentler side of Fair Isle palettes, with an oatmeal ground and a pattern of granite blue, fresh green and rose red. Price, £195. Bosie offer a wider size range than many other vendors.

4. Ooooh! Here's a hand-knit, very hard to find online. Mati Ventrillon is a native Fair Isle crofter dedicated to preserving the heritage; her pieces are sold on the Old Stone Trade site. This vest is $US 950 and represents over 25 hours of work. Apparently there is a years-long waitlist. Stunning—and perhaps highly motivating for you knitters!

I especially like them as vests or waistcoats, because they fit under a jacket or coat. Brora offers them every season; the cashmeres are beauties but the wool and mohair styles are more affordable, especially if you pounce during sales. 

Shown, Brora wool Fair Isle tank in "Neutral"; price, £135, worn over a marinière.  It is easy to pattern-mix, just pick one linking colour.

I had a note from Jane in London, who said she had travelled with her family, as a child, to an old fishing and whaling town,Whitby, on the Yorkshire coast, and once saw an exhibition of traditional fishing sweaters through the ages, each one hand-worked with specific stitches that reflected the job, village or family of the wearer. Ganseys are another chapter in Rutter's book, and deserve a post of their own, but do click on the link to see Daniel Day-Lewis in his special and sentimental one.

The finale is Le Duc in his thirty-three year old Fair Isle waistcoat, also knitted by his mother, Monique, who had an artist's eye for composition. She was born to knit and weave, and Fair Isles were her chefs d'oeuvre.

We lost her six years ago, so I have to make do with retail versions, but those please me, too. Each time I look at the colourways, I sense she is leaning over my shoulder, pointing to especially felicitous patterns, and confirming Woolf's observation that our clothes "mould our hearts".