Windy Weather and Woolly Goings On.

With seven days off I hope to document what I get up to each day. 

We'll see if I stick to plan or chase squirrels

Wednesday. 

Wednesday dawned dry and clear, the kind of morning that promises order and ease. I moved through my chores with quiet purpose. Grocery shopping was next on the list, so I headed out beneath a still-bright sky, the sun warm on my shoulders as I stepped into the supermarket.

But when I emerged, the day had shifted. The air was suddenly thick—hot, humid, and heavy with change. The sky had turned a brooding grey, and a restless wind had begun to stir. I loaded my bags into the car quickly. The wind was strong enough at the lights to make the car shift a little—definitely not the same calm morning I’d started with.

By the time I reached home, the wind had picked up and the temperature and humidity had climbed. The sky had darkened, low and grey, hinting at rain but holding off for now. Looking out of the kitchen window as I unpacked my bags I saw the cherry tree’s branches moving with the wind, petals torn loose and dancing across the garden. I feared I wouldn’t get the chance to stand beneath its branches and listen to the bees going about their business as the wind might steal away all the blossom.

After a quick lunch, with the weather growing wilder still, I settled into my armchair and let the afternoon unfold in stitches. Outside, the wind rattled the roof iron and stirred the garden into motion, but inside, it was bootie time. I got busy, needles clicking softly, the Pixie Wine yarn running between my fingers, the rhythm familiar and soothing. Mistakes from the first attempt had been noted, forgiven, and lessons learned.

Mid-afternoon, I took a break to make a cuppa and whip up a batch of my chocolate and coconut slice. This time, I added a tweak. I’ve had a few ideas of my own, and a friend suggested one or two more—so I’ll need to revisit my recipe page and note the variations as I try them. Wednesday's twist was peppermint; I stirred it through and then popped the mixture into the fridge to set.

After lifting my needles again I made good progress, the bootie growing row by row.  But later as I was greeting Tony, my attention wavered, and I pulled the wrong needle. Not the empty one—no, the one loaded with twelve precious stitches. Just like that, they all dropped. Oh no! I scrambled to gather them back onto the needle, fingers fumbling. Somehow, I managed to rescue them, and carried on, completing the next two rounds quickly. Phew. Not perfect, but not a disaster. I had reached the point where I needed to turn the heel, I'd need peace and quiet for that part, so I tucked the knitting away in its bag.  Besides, it was time to turn my attention to dinner. Butter Chicken was next on the agenda, so I donned my apron.

Once dinner was cooked and eaten, and the kitchen tidied, we treated ourselves to a taste of the chocolate and peppermint slice. Yum—definitely a keeper. The mint came through clean and cool, just the way I’d hoped. With dishes done and the evening settling in, we took our places in our chairs. I picked up my crochet and let the evening unfold with TV and stitches.

Before bed, I completed a full border round in a soft cherry blossom pink—delicate and cheerful, like spring stitched into yarn. I folded the crochet gently and tucked it away, ready for the next round when the time was right. A quiet finish to a day full of wind, booties, mint slice, and small wins.

Thursday. 

During the darkness of the night, I woke more than once to the sound of the wind still blowing. It thrummed through the iron chairs on the deck and made the halyard clank against the flagpole—a restless rhythm that tugged at sleep. But as dawn arrived, the gusts began to ease, and things began to settle.

Tony and I watched the sunrise as we cooked and ate breakfast, the light spilling softly across the kitchen. Outside, the cherry tree was still dressed in its pink blossoms, swaying gently in the morning breeze. Later our neighbour sent through her annual photo, taken from her kitchen window—a quiet tradition now, marking spring’s arrival.

In the photo, you can see the smaller cherry tree in the foreground on the right—a different variety that flowers a little later, just after the big one has shed its petals and begun to leaf out. They stand like quiet guards at either end of the greenhouse, marking time in blossom and shade. That’s our kitchen window, overlooking the garden. From there, we watch over the greenhouse and the veg beds. Soon, hopefully, there’ll be a second greenhouse to keep an eye on—a quiet expansion, the chilli house.

*

Once Tony had left for work, I turned my attention to the day. No chores, no baking, no errands in town—just a quiet stretch of time that was all mine. I picked up my knitting sticks and returned to the bootie, the heel waiting patiently. I took my time, checking and rechecking that each needle was in its proper place. By lunchtime, the heel was turned, and the bootie had taken its next step forward. It’s not my finest hour, but it’s progress—and no repeat of the previous days near disaster, and I’m one step closer to a finished bootie. Time for a break.

Grace and I exchanged emails, comparing our progress. Her sock is coming along beautifully—striped in soft blues and peaches, with a crisp white heel. It’s lovely to share the journey, stitch by stitch, even from afar. There’s something comforting about knowing someone else is counting rows and turning heels too.

*

After a quick lunch, I stepped outside to check the garden. The wind had all but gone, leaving just the gentlest breeze to stir the bunting on the deck. I stood beneath the flowering cherry and listened, thousands of tiny bee voices humming above me, with the occasional deeper rumble of a bumblebee passing by. The daffodils had taken a beating in the wind, so I picked the damaged ones and brought them indoors to a vase. There’ll be plenty more soon.

Then it was time to plant. I folded newspaper into seedpods and tucked in dwarf beans, nestling them beside the seedling trays in the back porch. Everything got a good drink, back outside I pulled a few weeds and decided it was time to return indoors.

*

Then a quick visit to the kettle for a fresh cuppa, and back to my chair and my yarn. Outside, the breeze stirred the bunting just enough to remind me it was still spring. Inside, the rhythm returned—hook, loop, sip, repeat.

As I sat knitting rounds, adding a foot to the bootie, the weather turned—and turned fast. One moment the garden was basking in a gentle breeze, bunting barely stirring, bees humming in the cherry tree. The next, clouds rolled in like a curtain call, and the light changed. I watched it happen from the comfort of my armchair. Rain and hailstones began to fall, growing heavier and louder. The wind rose again, and pink petals blew past the window like snow borne on the wind.

As the drama unfolded outside, the bootie grew inside, round by round, the Pixie wine yarn looped together and lengthened toward a toe. Each stitch holding the next, just as the pink petals had bloomed on the tree, now my yarn was blooming on my needles. 

Tony came home and told me about his day—he was lucky, catching a window between downpours to drive home. I worked to a convenient stopping point, marked it on my pattern, and laid my needles to rest. Then into the kitchen to create chow mien for tea. The evening promised another round of crochet, a different rhythm, a different tool, but the same quiet satisfaction. 

*

Wow, I wrote a lot. If you’ve made it this far, consider yourself officially weathered and worthy. I’d love to hear what stitched itself into your day, or which colourway caught your eye. Drop a comment below—rain or shine, your words are welcome here.