The folded mass on my lap could be an Old English Sheepdog. The colouring is right. The size nearly perfect. One of us is panting and drooling at the anticipation of starting the second sleeve. But, because of apartment rules, there is no dog, but instead a Cardigan, with an intentional capital ‘C.’
Finishing the body of my thick woolly cardigan and trying it on, the first word that comes to mind is armour. I’ve knitted the wool version of chainmail.
I read and hear a lot about “halo” when knitting, christening the glorious soft fibers of mohair, cashmere and other delicious cotton candy combinations that feel soft and blooms as its worn, hence the halo observation.
My novice knitting crusade is cursed because I seem to have an unsinkable affinity for rough wool. The rustic stuff. From heritage breeds. From the backs of sheep that vault over stone paddock walls, picnic voraciously on the sparse slopes of mountains, and watch the choppy foam of angry oceans from their rocky perches. These are tough sheep, raised tenderly by tough farmers and what else would you expect but rough and tumble wool?
The untamed sprigs of tog (the outer fibers of dual coated Icelandic fleece) resemble a static electricity experiment gone right: these black wires will not settle into my knitting; they won’t go with the flow. They stand on end, charged, as though a lightening storm is about to crackle overhead.
This cardigan has risen like a souffle. It has a halo that doesn’t bloom, but gently…bristles? The simple garter stitch, loop by loop, looks like chainmail. The cardigan broadens my shoulders and straightens my waist. Perhaps unflattering but more important unfaltering.
A cardigan this tough, this protective of the wearer, this conducive to layering belongs everywhere. Countryside, and city center. Office space and restaurant. Mountain tops, and the seaside in winter. Wind, rain, fog and chill, this cardigan belongs. It will go where the wearer goes, and it will be such a trusted, dear companion, that it will always be asked to go again.
The one place where this chainmail cardigan doesn’t belong—and you’re never going to find it—is, of course, the closet.
Sew, until next month, I knit. Happy October!
From the camera roll: when in Venice…