The Herons visit Lake Heron.

We’d planned something quiet and meaningful to mark our anniversary this year— a daytrip to Lake Heron. Not a grand gesture, but a gentle one: a shared outing, a change of scenery, a peaceful day, perfect for marking time together.

We left Timaru under a sky quilted in cloud — soft, warm, and promising. The country roads stretched ahead, quiet and familiar, with only the hedgerows and fenceposts or the occasional house to nod us along. No rush, no traffic, just the hum of tyres and a sense of adventure.

We’re heading yonder — following the fence line and the folds of the land, drawn toward the mountains. Even in November, snow still lingers on the highest ridges, like a quiet reminder that the seasons don’t rush. The clouds above were restless, but the road beneath felt sure.

The roads were mostly ours — quiet stretches of countryside with only paddocks of cows or mailboxes for company. But then, true to rural form, we found ourselves tucked behind a slow-moving tractor, while another rumbled toward us in the opposite lane. A brief moment of choreography on the open road: no horns, no hurry, just a nod to the pace of farm life.

I could feel the slow pressure changes in my ears as we crept upward, the road winding and folding with the land’s own rhythm. Each turn brought us closer to the mountains, the asphalt stretching thinner until — quite suddenly — it gave way to gravel. Tony eyed the loose stones with quiet concern, protective of his shiny red car. But onward we went, trusting the road and the day.

Higher and higher we climbed, edging closer to the snow — though it still clung to the farthest peaks, aloof and unreachable. At the top of a rise, we slowed, taking in the view as the road ahead zigged and zagged through the valley. Dust curled around the car in lazy spirals, hanging in the still air.

Then suddenly, we turned a corner — and there it was. Lake Heron, wide and windswept, stretched out ahead of us. A breeze danced across the surface, ruffling the water into shifting patterns. Snow-dusted peaks framed the lake, and the gravel road led us straight into the heart of it all. After all the winding and climbing, it felt like arriving somewhere quietly alive.

We followed the track around the lake’s edge, eventually pulling up on a flat patch of grass close to the shore. After two hours in a warm car, it was a relief to climb out, stretch our legs, and breathe in the fresh air. The wind was gentle — not cold, just enough to stir the lake and remind us we were somewhere wild. No shops, no signs, no picnic benches. Just us, the mountains, and the quiet invitation to wander.

And here we are — the Herons at Lake Heron. A fitting destination for our anniversary adventure, with snow-capped peaks and wind-stirred waters. No fanfare, just a shared smile and a moment to mark the day.

We wondered, just for fun, if Lake Heron might’ve been named by one of Tony’s ancestors. A little digging revealed a more poetic origin: an early settler, fishing at the lake’s edge, spotted several heron birds doing the same. Inspired by their quiet company, he named it Lake Heron. Still — we’ll claim it as ours. After all, the Herons made it here too.

After a short wander, we decided to head back the way we’d come. The breeze had picked up just enough to make lingering less inviting, and with no benches or sheltered spots, Lake Heron wasn’t quite the picnic haven we’d imagined. Besides, I’d spotted something on the way in that I wanted to photograph — so we hopped back into the car and began retracing our path along the gravel road, dust trailing behind us like a soft farewell.

About halfway back to the 'real' road, we paused again at a still pool mirroring the sky and mountains so clearly it felt like stepping into a painting. This was the photo I’d hoped to capture — and it didn’t disappoint.

On the way in, I’d noticed this smaller lake tucked into the valley, surrounded by a soggy, marshy fringe. It’s one of the Māori lakes — shallow and seasonal, appearing after rain or snowmelt, then vanishing in the dry summer months. The breeze that stirred Lake Heron didn’t reach down here; the surface was glassy, the reflections undisturbed. A quiet contrast, and a reminder of how many kinds of water the mountains hold. 

There wasn’t really a path to the water’s edge, but we picked our way closer, careful not to soak our shoes. Down in that valley, beside the quiet lake, everything felt hushed — still and silent, as if the land itself were holding its breath. Lake Heron had been bleak and beautiful, dramatic in its scale. But it’s the serenity of this smaller lake that will stay with me. A soft moment, tucked between mountains, where time seemed to pause.

Back in the car, we set off in search of a good picnic spot. The road offered its own entertainment — dodging farm machinery, admiring livestock, and watching the landscape shift from green to gold. This field of rape caught my eye, blazing bright against the muted sky. And right next door, a pale, lumpy paddock sparked a shared chuckle: clearly, the marshmallow crop was poor this year. Some harvests are best left to the imagination.

We picnicked in the small town of Mayfield, where the Domain offered a single table tucked into a sheltered corner surrounded by tall trees. Birds chattered around us hidden in the trees, they were remarkably well-mannered — not like the sparrows back in town who seem to materialize the moment you sit down, picnic or not.

I’d packed cheese, cold meats, crackers, pickles, and bottles of water, all quietly stashed behind my seat. Tony was surprised and delighted — a small feast he hadn’t seen coming. We shared the moment, left a few crumbs for the birds, and made sure to take all our rubbish with us. A simple lunch perfectly timed.

We chose a different route home, heading to the state highway and leaving the country roads to the farmers and their heavy machinery. It wasn’t long before we reached Tinwald, on the southern edge of Ashburton — which, of course, meant a necessary stop at one of my favourite stores. A little indulgence, a little tradition, and one last pause before the road carried us home.

This beautiful hexie quilt was draped on a ladder by the door, greeting me like an old friend. It was instantly inspiring — a patchwork of florals, stitched memories, and clever reuse. I could see that the maker had cut old cross-stitch pieces, doilies, and embroidered fragments to form some of the hexies. Nestled among the blooms, they looked perfectly at home. And you know I do love a scrappy quilt. After pausing to admire and snap a photo, I stepped through the door — and into heaven.

Almost as soon as I stepped inside, my eye was drawn to a beautiful blue bag hanging on the wall. Surrounded by quilts, kits, and bolts of fabric, it stood out — and tucked inside were the supplies to make one just like it. Sold.

Tony and I wandered the store while Rachael, the owner, cut fabric for another customer. We chatted as I admired her current project: a quilt top made entirely of half-inch squares. Sixteen blocks in a 4x4 layout, each one a mosaic of tiny, precise pieces in an Irish chain style quilt. She was choosing a floral backing and had a pile of hexie papers beside her, along with a clever little tool for removing glue-basted papers. It was lovely to talk shop with someone who clearly loves the craft.

Then it was my turn to pay, and we headed back to the car for the drive home.

 I curled up for a nana nap on the couch before we went out for tea — a quiet end to a day stitched with beauty, laughter, and love.

Pieces well placed.

 I may not have done much knitting recently—and no sewing at all—but life hasn’t been all work and sleep. Tony and I have completed not one, but two jigsaw puzzles this week. The Hawker Hurricane Warbirds you’ve seen before, in progress. Here it is, finished at last. Getting the sea and sky done was a bit of a mission but done it is.

That was Tuesday, on Wednesday, three nights ago, Tony pulled the Kiwi Road Trip out of the cupboard, and we made a start. I finished it this evening. To be honest, it’s only 500 extra-large pieces and a joy to put together, with lots of little details that made things easy peasy.

Two puzzle completions in four days—wow! Since Tony chose the last two, I think it’s my turn next. I’ll let you know which one I pick. It’s my weekend off work, and I’m taking it. No phone calls. Well, there shouldn’t be. And if there is, the answer will be NO.

Tomorrow, Tony and I are heading up to Lake Heron for a special anniversary outing—a look around, a picnic, and a walkabout. I'll be taking photos. We’ll come home later and go out for tea. A lovely way to mark the day we became Mr and Mrs Heron.

Maybe Sunday I’ll manage a little knitting.

I do hope that your weekend is as relaxed as mine is planned to be. 

Easing In Gently: November’s Threads of Hope

October was a bust—but I’m not letting that get me down. I’ve now got two sock patterns on the go. They’re currently resting, waiting for a proper day off when I can sit down, focus, and hopefully make some real progress.

Sensing my mounting frustrations, Tony decided to take action. He’d heard me mention a book called Super Socks—something I’d flagged as a possible Christmas gift. Off he went, determined to surprise me. And surprise me he did! Not quite the edition I had in mind… but what arrived was a children’s storybook titled Super Socks. Not exactly a guide to heel turns and toe shaping but never mind. It’ll make a lovely gift for someone small and imaginative.

Meanwhile, my sock patterns wait patiently, and I’m choosing to see the mix-up as a gentle reminder: not every detour is a disaster. Some just lead to unexpected sweetness.

*

Those winds I mentioned last time had their way with some of my peony buds—still tightly closed and green, they were knocked flat. I cut them and brought them indoors, not expecting much. For a while, they did nothing. One even drooped dramatically, as if giving up entirely.

Then, quite suddenly, one opened. And another followed a couple of days later.

Peonies don’t usually last long as cut flowers, so I’m making the most of this unexpected show—soft pinks unfolding in their own sweet time. 

*

I’m halfway through a stretch of seven working days—today was day four. Humpday! It’s downhill from here. I'm looking forward to my weekend off.

Each morning before work, I’ve been picking up the mohair and knitting a row or two. It’s become my thing, soft yarn, slow stitches, and a few moments of calm before the day begins. I’m enjoying the process, even if progress is gentle. It’s not about racing to the finish—just about starting the day with something soothing.

*

My expectations for November are simple and sweet. First up: a quiet celebration for our wedding anniversary this weekend. Nothing grand—just something warm and meaningful.

I’m hoping for more morning mohair progress, and maybe a breakthrough with at least one of my sock patterns. Two completed socks would be a triumph. I’d also like to make a start on a small cross stitch design I’ve planned as a Christmas gift.

And then there’s my back. Some days are better than others. I’m looking forward to the time when all days are better. Progress, however small, would be very welcome.

*

 So here we are: socks paused, peonies blooming and mohair making fluffy progress in the mornings. So far November is unfolding gently.  I've kept my plans simple because as we just saw with Tony's gift, sometimes plans go awry.

October round up.

Back at the beginning of the month, I was riding a delightful little wave — fresh off the triumph of my knitted pixie boots. Confidence boosted, heart full, and utterly smitten with those whimsical foot-huggers, I decided it was time to embark on a sock journey.

And what a journey it’s been.

I’ve wrestled with DPNs, tangoed with Trio needles, and flirted with a 9-inch round. Some methods were kinder than others. Currently, I’m experimenting with the idea of knitting socks flat on two needles. Have I completed a sock yet? Absolutely not. I keep getting tangled in the Bermuda Triangle of sock knitting: the heel turn. I did it for the boots — so why not socks?

I’ve tried different patterns. I’ve watched videos. I’ve read blog posts that promised “easy socks” (lies, all lies). I haven’t given up, though. I’m now considering a method that claims to “take the pain out of heels.” We’ll see about that.

Amidst the sock chaos the mohair project has made quiet, fuzzy progress. Not much — just a gentle row or two before work — but enough to remind me that not all yarn tangles, and not all stitches fight back.

It’s the kind of knitting that doesn’t demand much, just a soft touch and a bit of patience. And in a month like October, that’s been more than welcome.

Meanwhile, life has been busy. Work gobbled up most of the month with extra shifts, and the few days off I did get were spent running errands and chasing chores. I’m currently on day two of a brief reprieve after an eight-day stint — and tomorrow I dive into another seven-day stretch. Crafty time has been scarce. Grandchild cuddles even scarcer. I’m feeling the withdrawal. 

October also brought a head cold that clung on far longer than anticipated. It’s mostly gone now, but I’ve been left with a cough that refuses to pack its bags — and every time it rattles through, it tweaks my back like a mischievous gremlin.

I’d been hoping to stretch out my chiropractic visits to once a fortnight. That dream was short-lived. On the first day of an eight-day work stretch, I was sent to help out in my old role — all seemed well until I woke in the middle of the night in full spasm mode. Back to three visits a week. Every cough now comes with a bonus wince.

Let’s just say October didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat. But I’m still standing (mostly upright), still knitting (mostly socks), and still hopeful that November might bring a little more ease — and maybe even a completed heel.

Spring has supposedly arrived here in New Zealand. Some days, it shows — we bask in glorious sunshine, temperatures tipping over 20°C. Then a Southerly storm barrels up the islands. Felling trees, ripping of roofs, causing road closures and landslides, power outages and chaos everywhere it goes, and dumping a huge load of snow over the mountains and foothills. 

All around us, towns scrambled to clean up. Insurance companies braced themselves. Tradesmen weighed up who needed them most urgently. And Timaru? 

Timaru had a bit of weather.

No flooding. No damage. No chaos. Just a few gusts and a collective shrug

Just when October seemed determined to test my patience to it's very limits, a little burst of joy arrived in the cherry tree. While bustling about in the kitchen, I caught sight of a flutter and a flurry — and there she was: Mrs Goldfinch, perched proudly in a tiny nest, right at eye level.

She’s been there ever since, snug and serene, keeping watch over what I hope are soon-to-be hatchlings. I peek out every time I pass through, and it’s become a quiet ritual — a reminder that even in tangled sock yarn and sore backs, life finds a way to surprise us with sweetness.

Babies are coming. And I, for one, am thrilled.

October, you’ve been a menace. Socks unfinished, my back in revolt, and weather with a flair for destruction. You swept in with storms, stolen my days off, and left me coughing and cranky. Frankly, I’m thrilled to see the back of you.

Here’s to November — may it be gentler, brighter, and far less dramatic. I’m ready for baby birds, finished socks, and a spine that behaves itself, time with my Grandchildren and our wedding anniversary.  It's Joe and Lee's anniversary too. 

“Rest? Interrupted. Socks? Progressing. Onions? Uninvited.”

 Did I say three days off? Honestly, who was I trying to kid?

Wednesday was quiet. Blissfully so. But by Thursday, my old boss rang—could I help out? I politely declined. I suspect I could’ve bargained her down to just a few hours, but truth be told, I didn’t want it. Not this time.

Then this morning, while I was out at the washing line at 7:15, Helen called. My new boss. Could I help out this evening? Just 2–3 hours, just the drug round, anything—please help. She sounded so ill and stressed. Of course I said yes.

Ten minutes later, Debbie again. Could I help this morning? Sorry, Helen beat you to it.

So here I go. Off to work for some extra hours. LOL.

I had a chat with Debbie—everyone’s sick. Some are soldiering through like I did, others are calling in. I see more extra hours in my future. This head cold is proving stubborn. I’m still coughing, still waking up with a blocked nose every morning.

But in between the calls and the coughs, I made progress. My pink sock is coming along beautifully—yesterday’s stitches flew by, and I’m hoping to turn the heel before I head off to work. I’m still completely in love with this yarn. It’s soft, cheerful, and lovely to knit with. 

And speaking of sock adventures—I’ve just ordered a 9-inch Sock Wonder needle. It looks awfully short, and I did wonder if a whole sock could really fit on it. My pal Janice assures me it will. I’m not brave enough to transfer my current sock onto it, so I’ll wait until I start the second one before giving it a go. Fingers crossed it’s as lovely to work with as the yarn itself.

It’s BBQ season here in the South, and that means the return of all the trusty salads. One of the most beloved? The good old potato salad.

But if, like Tony and I, you’re keeping an eye on carbs, this twist is worth a try. It’s light, flavourful, and—best of all—easily tweakable. 

Cauliflower 'potato' salad. 

1 head of cauli, cut into bite size pieces.

3 hard boiled eggs, chopped.

3/4 cup of mayo

1/4 cup of red onion finely chopped.

3 tablespoons dill pickles minced or very finely diced.

2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar.

2 teaspoons Dijon mustard.

1/2 teaspoon celery salt

1/2 teaspoon dill

Salt and Pepper to taste.

Microwave or steam the cauli to your desired texture. Don't boil it, your salad will be soggy.

Add the pickles, onion and egg to a bowl and stir to combine.

Put the vinegar, mustard and seasonings into a bowl or jug and mix well.

Add the cauli while still warm to the egg mixture and pour over the dressing. Stir to combine.

Store in the fridge. Allow it to sit for at least an hour, but the longer it sits, the better it will taste. 

I’m taking this along to a friend’s place tomorrow, and since she’s allergic to onions—and just about everything in the onion family—I left out the red onion. But I still wanted that splash of colour, so in went some very finely chopped red cabbage. It worked beautifully.

In the past, I’ve used spring onions when I didn’t have red, and they add a nice bite. Crispy fried bacon is another great addition if you’re feeling indulgent.

And a quick word to the wise: I made sure to read the ingredient lists on the pickle and mustard jars—those sneaky onion and garlic relatives can hide in the fine print. Always worth a double-check when cooking for sensitive tummies.

A tweak I've been dreaming about, but I didn't try yet is a curried version. Omit the pickles, vinegar and mustard. Add a couple of tablespoons of sour cream to the mayo, and instead of celery salt and dill, add a spoon or two of your favourite curry powder. 

A quarter cup of frozen sweet corn would work in either the original or curried version too.

That’s my recipe for the month—tweaked, tested, and onion-free. 

Do you have a favourite salad that’s easily tweakable? Something that shows up at every BBQ, or a quiet little bowl that surprises everyone? Share your go-to combos, your fridge-foraged triumphs, or your best “oops, that worked!” moments.

Wool Gathering....

 Finally, I’ve reached the part of my roster I truly love—three uninterrupted days off. Well, that’s the plan. The phone is back on silent, and I’m hoping for no unexpected calls or errands.

Today began slowly, just the way I like it. Chores first, then a quiet sit-down with my knitting. I’ve cast on my first raspberry sock, and I’m giving those trio-style needles a proper trial. So far, I think I’m making good progress.

The yarn is a delight—shifting shades of purple and pink that bloom from ball to fabric, like a quiet sunrise stitched into each row. As I knit, it surprises me. In the ball, the colours nestle like petals—raspberry, blush, and a good dash of cream. But once knit, they don’t stripe or ripple. Instead, they soften and blur, creating a gentle marled texture—like watercolour on wool.

The cream that was so evident in the ball is now knitted and stirred into the stitches—no longer a bold presence, but a quiet breath beneath the pinks and purples. It’s softened into suggestion, letting the berry tones take the lead.

The trio needles are taking a little getting used to. I’m not sure yet if I’m more or less comfortable with these than the traditional DPNs. The rhythm is different—less clatter, more flex—but my hands haven’t quite decided if they like the change. I’ll persevere and see how things go. For now, the stitches are behaving, and the sock is growing. That’s enough.

*

Progress is also being made on the mohair sweater. It’s slow going—just a row or two here and there—but that’s okay. I’m not in a hurry. The yarn is light, the stitches are airy, and the pace suits me.

I have to say, the swap from 6.5 mm sweater needles to 2.5 mm sock needles is a leap. The mohair needles felt chunky, almost clumsy—like holding garden stakes. These sock needles are fine, precise, almost dainty. My fingers have to recalibrate, relearn the rhythm. But there’s something comforting in that shift. The smaller needles nestle into my hands differently, asking for a gentler touch. It’s a quieter kind of knitting, and I’m finding my way

*

In my last post, I hinted that I might have been shopping—for sock yarn, of course. And now, the evidence is here. No pinks or purples this time—just a bold, beautiful mix of mossy greens, stormy blues, chalky greys, and even a dash of sunset orange. Each skein feels like a story waiting to be told.

There’s Opal’s forest-toned celebration yarn, with its misty blues and glacier whites—like a walk through alpine shadows. Then there’s the holiday skein, with cheerful hints of greens and reds, like a sock-sized postcard from somewhere warm and festive. 

               

The Mandala wool leans into teal and maroon, deep and moody like a twilight tidepool. 

    

                  

And that Chalkhill Blue from West Yorkshire Spinners? It’s a butterfly wing in yarn form—delicate, dappled, and quietly wild.

I’m not sure which one I’ll cast on next. For now, they’re nestled beside the couch, waiting patiently. Like ingredients in a well-stocked pantry, they’ll reveal their true personalities when the time is right.

*

Twice recently, I’ve been gifted bags of yarn—some full balls, some curious little ends, each one a mystery in colour and ply.  I feel so lucky, so quietly blessed to receive these leftovers. There’s something generous and hopeful in yarn passed from one maker to another. They’ve all been added to the stash, tucked in beside the other odds and ends, waiting patiently for their turn. I suspect a scrappy crochet project is brewing somewhere in the background. It’s not planned yet, but the yarn knows. It always does.

*

It’s fair to say I’ve been bitten by the knitting bug. The sock yarn stash has grown, the needles are in rotation, and my hands seem to know what they want—at least for now. But crafting, for me, has always been a cycle. I’ve shifted from patchwork to crochet, wandered through EPP and cross stitch, and now I’m deep in knitting again. Round and round it goes, each phase bringing its own rhythm and comfort. I wonder where the next change will take me?

Do your crafting moods change too? Do you find yourself drawn to different fibres, colours, or tools depending on the season—or the week? I’d love to hear what’s on your needles, or what’s waiting patiently in your stash for its turn.

Socks, Cherry Blossoms and Cough Drops.

 There hasn’t been a huge amount happening here since I last wrote—just the usual shifts at work, plus an extra thrown in for good measure. I’ve taken the liberty of putting my phone on silent for yesterday and today, just in case work gets any ideas. I think I’ve earned my days off, and I intend to keep them.

I’ve had a sore throat lingering for a few days now. Not enough to make me miserable, but just enough to be noticed—especially at night, when it seems to settle in like an unwelcome guest. I’m not sure if this is the whole show or just the opening act, but for now I’m keeping it at bay with sugar-free cough sweets and quiet defiance.

Aside from work and throat-soothing rituals, it’s been the usual domestics. The other day, while emptying the bins, I spotted a pair of Tony’s rather expensive merino socks tossed in with the rubbish. One toe had worn through—but I only bought them a few weeks ago! No way were they going to landfill. I sat down and repaired the holey toe. It’s not the tidiest job in the world, but it’s certainly cheaper than buying new ones. Besides, there’s something satisfying about saving a sock from an untimely end. Let’s just say the socks weren’t the only thing in need of attention. I may have hinted that a toenail trim could save future wool casualties.

I treated myself to a set of those trio- needles to try out on my next pair of socks. Knitting up those pixie boots recently gave me a taste for sock-making again. I might just have another go—especially since I’ve got that lovely raspberry-coloured yarn waiting patiently in the wings. And yes, there may be more pretty sock yarn on the way. I’m not making promises, but the stash might be expanding.

The mohair sweater is coming along slowly—just a row or two here and there—but I’m happy with how it’s shaping up. It’s a quiet kind of progress, the sort that suits the season.

Speaking of seasons, the cherry trees in our garden continue their dance. The big tree is now mostly green, having shed its blossoms, but the little tree is in full bloom. Anyone standing beneath its branches will hear the gentle hum of bees, busy with their day. It’s a lovely sound—like nature’s own machine, stitching spring into place.

I’ve been playing with my chocolate and coconut slice again. Did I mention the peanut version? I added chopped peanuts and three generous tablespoons of peanut butter to a batch, and Tony absolutely loved it. Then I tried crushed freeze-dried raspberries in the next round—another delicious twist. It’s become a bit of a ritual now, tweaking the recipe and watching the smiles.

So that's me for now. A quiet week, in more ways than one. Now I'm off to put a chilli con carne in the slow cooker, what's for tea in your house tonight?

Voirrey Thistlewinks Boots.

So you know by now that I stumbled upon a knitting pattern for the cutest wee boots—turned-up toes, and a cuff of leaves circling the ankle like a forest whisper. I fell in love instantly and knew I had to make some.

I have no one small enough to wear pixie boots, and I hadn’t knitted in the round with DPNs for years. Even then, I’d only made three tiny baby socks. But I was determined. I was going to knit myself some pixie boots.

I had a vision—a dream, really—of a Faerie who came in from the cold, just wanting to be warm for a while. Then, caught off guard, she ran off barefoot, leaving her boots behind. That whimsical tale grew stitch by stitch as I knitted.

My first effort was ripped out, but I wasn’t deterred. I started again, a little tidier, a little wiser. The first completed boot still wasn’t perfect, but it taught me what I needed to know. The pair to the first was better, easier going. And this morning a surprise snowfall gave me the perfect excuse to stay home, sit down and finish the last of the leaves around the ankle.

The leaves knit up quickly, and before I knew it, I was slipping the second boot onto my DIY sock blocker. And finally this Faerie tale was born.

Voirrey Thistlewinks Boots.

She came in from the frost with a whispering tread,

A faerie in search of warmth amid yarn and thread.

She slipped past the fabric to a crafty retreat,

Where scissors hung sharp and the projects ran deep.

In boots knit from twilight and thistle’s own thread,

Voirrey danced softly where a crafters dreams spread.

An Inneen ny Shee, with a secretive grace,

She vanished, a whisper still warming the space.

Now resting alone with a whimsical toe,

Turned upward like laughter where faeries might go.

Their cuffs are all leafy, a green-stitched bouquet—

Two booties now waiting to dance the spring day.

*

A Note on Manx Folklore

Inneen ny Shee (pronounced in-yen nuh shee) is Manx Gaelic for “Girl of the Fairies.” In Manx tradition, the Shee are fairy folk—secretive, nature-bound, and often glimpsed at twilight. An Inneen ny Shee might be a gentle visitor, a mischief-maker, or a guardian of hidden places.

Voirrey is a Manx version of Mary, often linked to fairies and folklore. Soft, secretive, and Fae approved, it felt like just the right name for the owner of the boots supposedly left behind in my craft room.

I wonder what you make of Voirrey’s boots and my imaginings. Feel free to share—this corner of the internet is always open to a bit of whimsy.

*

Still here after my imaginings? You’ll be wondering what comes next after the completion of that little obsession. Another squirrel, of course.

Do you recall when I found the pattern for the mohair sweater my lovely mum knitted for me back when I was about 16 or 17? I started it the other night. I needed a break from the 2.75 mm needles and the 4-ply yarn—my eyes and fingers were beginning to complain. The mohair and the 6 mm needles were on hand, so I cast on the back of the sweater. There’s a lovely 2x2 rib in progress, soft and rhythmic.

To my surprise, the mohair isn’t nearly as troublesome as I feared. It’s behaving—mostly—and I’m very much enjoying the change of texture. I think I’ve found my next mindless TV project. It’s the kind of knitting that lets the story unfold on screen while the stitches grow quietly in my lap.

*

We’ve reached that time in my roster where I get three whole days off. Unless the phone rings, which seems unlikely this week. With only a few chores, a quick grocery shop, and a visit to the chiropractor on Friday afternoon, the rest of the time is mine.

So what to do with all of that time? 

**

Post Script

There’s always a phone call, isn’t there? Just as I was off editing photos and admiring Voirrey’s leafy cuffs, the phone rang. So, this evening I’m working a short shift—just four hours. Not too bad, really. Enough time to be useful, not enough to unravel the mohair mood. The boots will wait, the blog will post, and the squirrel will find me again tomorrow.

Springing Forward and Digging In, A day of soil and seasonal shifts

 Sunday at last—a day off, and blissfully so. I woke not to the alarm, but to the sound of birds. Even better, I was able to drift back to sleep for a while. When I woke again, the dawn chorus had passed and the birds were already busy about their day. The clocks in New Zealand sprang forward last night, so I’ve no idea what time it was. But I decided it was time to get up.

I started the day with a cup of peppermint and liquorice tea while checking blogs and answering emails. Then it was time to knit. I managed about a dozen rounds on my DPNs and nudged the pixie boot to its next milestone. This version is gliding along far more smoothly than its predecessor—what a relief.

At some point, Tony announced it was time to visit the garden center to shop for chilli peppers. I decided to tag along and sneak a few extras into the trolley. Once home, we had a quick lunch and headed straight into the garden.

First things first: I dug a hole under the cherry tree and planted another hellebore. I do love them—and the way they spread themselves around. The more ground they cover, the less I have to keep tidy. Next came two wildfire chillies, a Carolina Reaper, and a red capsicum, all tucked into the new greenhouse alongside some very sorry-looking marigolds. Hopefully they’ll perk up and help keep the bugs at bay. Tony, meanwhile, was busy planting tomatoes in the big greenhouse.

See that bright blue packet on the shelf? That’s the sulphates packet. THE packet. The one that housed the monster spider. (((Shudder)))

Next, we dug a hole in a sheltered corner and planted a lemon tree. Yes—I got my way, and we now have a new lemon tree. While Tony busied himself with lawn food, I planted sweet peas in the big barrels on the front patio, alongside the pansies and other flowers from last time.

Then came the broccoli, planted beside the cauli flowers. I picked a small cauli that was ready for the kitchen, then planted a few rows of leek sets in the next bed and covered them with netting to stop the blackbirds from digging them up. They do love to rummage through the gardens—especially that bed, which still wears its winter blanket of straw and leaf mulch.

Finally, we gave everything a big drink with some especially smelly food recommended to us. It’s made from leftovers in the factory that produces frozen fish fillets and fish fingers. Need I say more?

I made sure to stand for a while beneath the cherry tree. It’s not so pink now—many of the blossoms have drifted away—but enough remain to draw the bees, who hum through the branches like tiny, winged blessings. Their quiet industry filled the air with a calming pulse, a reminder that the garden still has its own rhythm.

The smaller cherry tree is just beginning to bloom. It’s not as showy as its larger sibling, but it holds its own charm—modest, steady, and still beloved by the bees. They don’t mind the difference. They simply go where the nectar calls

The wind’s rising now, and we’ve retreated indoors after a successful couple of hours in the garden. The soil’s been turned, the lemon tree’s in, and the bees have had their say. It might just be time to pick up the knitting again and let the pixie boot march on. Or maybe, just maybe I'll dig out the mohair and start something new.

How did your Sunday unfold? Did it come with soil, stitches, or something entirely unexpected? I’d love to hear.